Trysts and Twysts
by QuidditchQuitter
Summary: Postepilogue. Harry bumps into his old rival after a row with his wife, Ginny. He never expects to develop a friendship that quickly consumes him, and becomes something much more…
1. Chapter 1

**Title: ****_Trysts and Twysts_**

**Author's Note: **This is a story in which everyone makes dubious decisions and behaves with a severe lack of self control, hence, the title. Fun but also hard to write sometimes. Glad I'm finally finishing it. You've been warned!

**Disclaimer: **Let's not insult anyone's intelligence with a disclaimer, including the original author's (and not least of all, mine, by having to write one in the first place.)

**Summary: **Post-epilogue. Harry bumps into his old rival after a row with his wife, Ginny. He never expects to develop a friendship that quickly consumes him, and becomes something much more…

**Warnings: **Slash, het, language, excessive melodrama, vice, silliness, kink, and canon-violations. My sincerest apology to the purists!

**Pairings: **HP/DM, HP/GW, DM/GW, DM/OC, GW/OC…

Twysts

"_Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'  
We are not now that strength which in old days  
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;"_

_-Alfred Lord Tennyson, _

_"Ulysses" from Poems, In Two Volumes_

_It's painful, always thinking of you, and always knowing I can never have _

_you or give you all of me._

_-CO_

_Chosen One_, Potter thought ironically, tipping the bottle which he kept privately tucked under his desk against his burning lips. He swallowed, then threw his head back and laughed until it hurt. The nickname had been Draco's idea. It was the twenty-eighth time he had written this letter, and he had never been able to send it. He would not send it tonight again. He hoped he would not. _But if there were ever a time to send it_…he mused, only peripherally aware of the fact that his eyes had grown wet.

"She knows, Draco, she knows…she knows, she knows…Draco, she knows…" He chanted to himself, mesmerized by the pain love had brought him, until he lost himself in a trance of memory.

He wasn't a bad guy. He knew it. He'd once even been considered a hero, and for all he knew, that's what people still thought. He did not mean to hurt his wife of nineteen years, just as he could not bring himself to hurt Draco, his lover, or Albus, James and Lily, his children. That was the part that hurt the most-

_(That's what hurts the most! She had screamed)_

_(I'm sorry! I'm sorry I let you down! I'm sorry I ruined everything! I'm sorry for the children! He had screamed back, sobbing)_

He was just a lousy father, apparently…and a lousy husband. How had it come to this? And how was it that there seemed no way out for him, no way out of the spiraling failure he was turning into; _he_, who had once gone to the other side of life, and come back, he who had held counsel with the dead? _How had he missed the fact that he was obviously GAY?!_

"That's it, right there! That's the real mystery," he said aloud, standing up and turning to catch his glance in the mirror that hung on the inside of his cabinet door. It was cluttered with pictures of his children, of Ginny, and his best friends Ron, Hermione, Luna and Neville. His eyes were bloodshot and red, and his hair was beginning to look as unruly as it had in his teenage years. While it could have been a trick of the eyes, he thought he saw the beginnings of wrinkles around his lips, where his smile must have once been. He'd not shaved in a couple of days…Draco _loved_ his face like that, _god_ did he love it…

"That's the one, Dumbledore. Why didn't you ever tell me about _that_ one? You knew everything _else _about me, didn't you? Didn't you think I might need that one little bit of information? No? How about Professor Snape? _He_ must have picked up on it! You should have listened to him, Dumbledore, he was right about me…in _so_ many ways."

_Harry? Who are you talking to?_ The voice of his wife had been assumed by his conscience many years ago. She was always so calm, all-knowing, even forgiving…just when he was at the end of his sanity. Was this the reason he unconsciously took his real wife for granted? But Ginny had not left him…not yet. Nor had she threatened to. Nor had she, he considered for the millionth time with another swig, ever said a _word_ that indicated she was angry about what she knew, what she _had_ to know.

_That's Ginny for you_, he'd once told Draco. It was her capacity for pain, so much deeper, so much the more bottomless than his had ever been, that wounded him to where he could no longer stand to be in the same room with himself, let alone in Draco's arms. He stalked over to the cage by the window that hung over his desk, stumbling on the foot of the chair he'd failed to scoot out of the way. Opening the door and shoving his hand around inside the cage-Percival squawked when he caught the black owl's chubby birdleg-he tied the note around his foot and sent him screeching off into the darkness.

"Tell him it's my heart he hears, being ripped apart!" Potter shouted carelessly after the owl as the screech filled the night air. The tears streamed, forgotten, in rivulets down his face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **_**Twysts**_

**Author's Note: **Thanks for the reviews. More updates to come!

"Idiot," muttered Draco, as he crumpled Harry's note. The high-strung, black owl that had come with it squawked indignantly. Draco yawned; fluttering, scraping and screeching at his window at four in the morning had awakened him. He knew the owl was from Harry even before he'd opened his eyes, and when he'd read the contents, his grogginess became decidedly bad-tempered. "What is he thinking? I knew he couldn't handle the pressure of an affair." He stroked the owl, which blinked at him crazily, yawning again. Then he bellowed for Hubie.

"Here, sir," the house elf that appeared squeaked.

"Not so loud, Hubie," he winced.

"Sorry sir," Hubie whispered shrilly. Hubie was the equivalent of a teenager among house elves, and had a particularly hyperactive enthusiasm for his duties.

"What's the next scheduled practice for the Hollyhead Harpies? Is it past for this week?"

"The Harpies practice six days a week, sir, not including Monday evenings."

"Ah. Very good. I need…some parchment…" Draco rolled over in his bed and squinted at his desk in the darkness. It was all the way on the other side of the room. "Parchment, and a quill…oh hang it," he said as Hubie was levitating the parchment over to him from his drawer, "I'll dictate. In your _best_ handwriting, Hubie."

"Right away, sir! I'm ready to take your dictation."

"Good." He lay back and stretched, bare-chested, staring at the dark ceiling. He closed his eyes; the bed felt deliciously comfortable as it soothed his rudely awakened body, but he knew what would have made it all the more comfortable. "Address it to Mrs….Ginerva Weasley Potter. I don't know what she's calling herself these days…Better make it just the last names."

"Mrs….Weasley…Potter…." the elf read as the quill wrote beside him, and waited. Draco grinned, a broad, toothy grin.

* * *

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

He remembered the moment that had sealed the beginning of their friendship. It was a moment he would never forget, and the only one that was seared into his memory strong as an epiphany of fate. Only one other in his life had been like that, and that had been the moment he'd hesitated and lost the chance to fight on the right side.

Harry Potter had come into the pub looking both sullen and devastated. His heavy eyebrows were pushed together in self-indulgent concentration; he swaggered up to the bar, blinking around nervously, and muttered something to the bartender. Draco read his body language as that of someone who had never ordered a heavy drink in his life, with the express intention of sloshing away some great, consuming present agony. He had watched curiously, of course, especially when Potter sat down one stool away from him, and didn't even seem to notice.

Draco medicated his own failures with scotch now and then, but he had inherited his family's snobbish distaste for roaring drunkenness, and so settled for a warm buzz that was just enough to wave away occasional poor judgment. He was a quiet drinker. Perhaps Potter was too?

Potter had a lager of dark beer in front of him, and from the pursing of his wet lips, it tasted rather foul. He gulped it down anyway and ordered another, looking around. His eye caught Draco's and showed a flash of shocked recognition just as Draco turned his attention to his own scotch. _What business is it of mine, anyway. He's not hurting anyone. And neither am I._ He wished Potter had looked around a little more carefully before he'd parked his arse next to him, but since he hadn't, he sure as hell wasn't going to move his own. There went his quiet evening, though…the kind in which Potter did not exist. _Bastard_!

When he snuck another glance, he saw that Potter was taking in the pub's entire interior. It must be rather unusual for Potter to be on this side of town. The pub was an upscale tavern that made itself out to have the largest international selection in the area, and used this excuse to charge excessively high prices from its customers. If he was out here, Draco mused, there must be something he wanted to avoid in his own neighborhood. _But why should I care? Fucking Potter. It's about time he joined the rest of us in the land of mediocrity. _And immediately, this thought was followed by an overpowering impulse to talk to him. _Hey, Potter, you look a little down. What's got you all mopey?_ Horrified, Draco clutched at his drink and stared straight ahead. _Sycophant!_ His inner voice hissed.

"-to start a tab," Potter was telling the bartender, and Draco nearly fell out of his chair laughing. _Wow, what's got _him_ all worked up? This is utterly pathetic!_ He was bursting with glee. But outwardly he showed nothing, a strange mix of pity and genuine humility constraining him. He sighed, glancing at Potter's profile from the side. Like it or not, he had had to live for nineteen years with the knowledge that Harry Potter had saved the wizarding world and, when Draco tried to stop him, his life as well. The name of Malfoy had never again had quite the same social currency since. The whole thing was so bloody awkward that Draco really did wish he could get up and leave; if only he could find the perfect excuse.

After a little while, however, as he sat pondering and made one third of his way through the second scotch, some old friends from Slytherin saved the day when they clambered over the stools on his other side. Grateful for a reason to turn away from Potter-who by now had been looking as disgruntled as he by their mutual discomfort-he flashed a rare smile and pretended to give them his full attention.

Over the course of the evening, as neither yielded his position, Draco could not help but observe that Potter was truly distraught about something, and he did not think he had _ever_ seen him truly distraught. _He knows an awful lot about suffering traumatic events, but I wonder what he knows about surviving normalcy_, he wondered, correctly assuming that Potter must be having trouble at home-or within. There wasn't anything else he could think of that would drive a man to drink. There was something else that made Draco take an irreversible interest in Potter, however. Unlike Draco, Potter had no one to talk to; even the bartender seemed to be avoiding him.

As the tired hours wore on and the more boisterous patrons-including some of the Slytherin alumni-departed, Draco thought he could not much more stand the piteous sight. Potter sat hunched upon his elbows, his hands pulling back his hair so that he was red at the temples. Unable to contain himself any longer, he nudged his drinking mate and indicated Potter slyly.

"The Chosen One. Did you notice?" He murmured, and the Slytherin nodded, chuckling.

"You going to talk to him?"

"Thinking about it. He looks bloody pathetic. He might bite my head off, though. Not sure if it's worth the effort." He kept his voice quite low, but all the same, he stole another glance to see if Potter was aware of their conversation. The bar was not as loud as it had been, but it did not seem as if he had heard them at all.

"'Bout to head to Millicent's myself."

"What's the occasion? Party?"

"Yeah, little get together. Few old friends and mates. I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you came along…"

Draco's eyes narrowed, stung. He had grown rather suspicious these days about what his past classmates said behind his back, and his pride would not allow him to accept any invitation that might be less than deliberate.

"That's all right, I'll send her a card. I've got to be getting back, anyway…the wife and all." His wife was actually away, but there was no need for Whatever-His-Name-Was to know that. His companion looked unsure, but he nodded him off.

"Go on. I think I'll stay here and keep an eye on the Golden Drunk here," he smirked.

"All right. See ya, Malfoy."

He watched the school chum, whose name he could never remember even then, over his shoulder until he'd disappeared through the glass doors. When he was gone, Draco took a deep breath, and turned to Potter. Potter was looking right at him. Draco waved a hand weakly.

"How goes it, Potter?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **_**Twysts**_

**Author's Note: **Thanks for the reviews. More updates to come!

"Got anything planned Monday evening?" Potter looked up with a start into the deep, dangerously unreadable eyes of his wife, Ginny. He had been sitting over a coffee table with a toy broom on his lap for the last half hour, lost in thought, while the twilight seeped in through the many windows. He was embarrassed; he supposed his own were still bloodshot from the crying-and drinking-of the night before. _Damn you, Draco_.

"Nothing that I know of. Why?"

"I thought we'd have someone over for supper, perhaps an old friend."

"Oh yeah? Ron and Hermione?"

"No, Draco Malfoy."

Potter stood bolt upright, the toy broom he had been repairing for Lily clattering to the floor. Was _this_ her carefully calculated plan for revenge? She gazed at him steadily, and he felt foolish; but she did not betray any hostility.

"Something wrong, Harry?"

"No…Yeah. Why Malfoy?"

"Why not? You and him have grown close over the past six months, you said so yourself. I suppose he ought to be a friend of the family."

Because he had no words, he could do nothing but look at her with an expression of deep pain. Did she think he enjoyed his secrecy? Did she mean to punish him with his mistake even more…or perhaps, to ensure that he would forever be repulsed by Draco's presence, unable to abide being in the same room with the two of them at the same time? But the time for second-guessing was long over. It was time to pick up the pieces of his decency, and act like a man. He swallowed.

"I still don't understand. Why this sudden interest in him? You were furious with me for spending so much time with him, for neglecting you and the children."

"Yes…and perhaps I only served to drive you to him all the more," Ginny said softly, and he noticed with a start that she was holding back gentle tears. He was struck with pity. _This must be so hard for her; much harder than for me._ He went to her, stepping over the broom with his arms outstretched. He was glad she did not step away; placing his hands upon her arms, he looked into her eyes.

"Ginny, you don't have to do this. You were right. I don't want you to do this because you think you haven't done enough. You've always done enough…you've given _everything_. _I'm_ the one who needs to figure out how to make it up to you." He faltered as she gazed at him, and thought how unfathomable it was that there were never the right words for the most important things he needed to say.

"I only wanted to try. I'd thought about it many times, but I was too angry, and I wasn't ready to try friendliness with him. But…I suppose could try it now. Besides, it was his idea," she said, looking down at her shoes, and at this Harry dropped his arms from her, feeling suddenly cold.

"What?"

"He wrote to us."

"When?"

"Oh…" He noted that she was avoiding his eyes, and a mysterious jealousy rose in his chest. _Draco_ had done this? Without consulting him?! "A couple of nights ago. He said that he would very much like to pay us a visit; seemed to think I'd be more comfortable in my own house. Of course he wants to return the favor, should we accept." She turned away from him, the matter having already been decided as far as she was concerned. "So I accepted."

"I see," Potter answered after a moment. "No one thought I might want to be included in these plans. Interesting."

And it was then that he saw the flash of deeply-rooted anger in her eyes; she turned to glare at him.

"I've dealt with my demons, Harry. If you still have your own to deal with, that's your problem."

"I didn't say I wouldn't go along with it!" He yelled to her retreating figure, feeling angry, hurt and guilty all at once. But the one he was most angry with was Draco. He was going to ruin everything; Potter's marriage hung on the brink of disaster, and he had just begun to set about rescuing it when Draco had answered his note, apparently, by taking matters into his own hands. And there could be no doubt that he was up to something. He was all too familiar with Draco's calculating shrewdness; even with the best of intentions, Potter could not trust him with something so delicate, so personal.

He had already let him get too close as it was, which was what had started all this in the first place. He had begun by feeling sorry for Draco, he and his over-inflated heroism; and then before he'd known it, he'd found himself sinking into a fascination that had evolved into a dangerous, writhing obsession. He had fallen in love with Draco though he had never, ever in his life been in love with a man. Even more incredibly, Draco had tolerated his affection, and in the end, even returned it. If it had not been for _that_…perhaps…He knew now that there could be no measure too extreme for setting such an unbelievable mess right again. He would have to uncover Draco's plan, whatever it was, and put an end to it long before Draco could set foot in _his_ home…

* * *

Harry had not been completely surprised by Malfoy's greeting in the tavern; what had surprised him, however, was its mildness and sincerity. Never in a million years had he thought that Malfoy would be able to swallow his pride. He knew that Malfoy, though acknowledging the debt he owed him for saving his life, was not capable of the kind of humility one would expect from a normal person. The last time he had seen him, they were boarding their children on the Hogwarts Express, and the most he had gotten was a cold nod. He would have, if still a young man, considered this a blazing sign of uncharacteristic civility on Malfoy's part. But having an actual conversation over drinks was another matter altogether. It threw him off his guard, and in his current state, the only thing that seemed to come easily in response was sarcasm.

"I'm doing just splendidly, Malfoy. And yourself?"

"Not bad, not bad," Malfoy had replied, in that thoughtful way people had when they were making small talk and knew it. But Harry was so certain he must have some agenda that he did not bother to say anything else. The next move would be Malfoy's. Wasn't it always? When he did not answer, however, Malfoy continued.

"Sent the little one off to visit some relatives in Switzerland just yesterday," he said amiably. "You've seen him?" Harry took a gulp of the revolting German beer he had insisted upon. _Oh god. I'm really going to sit here and have Malfoy bore me with his family life. Unbelievable. I can't _wait_ to tell Ron,_ he thought, all the while wondering what he would find to say in return.

"Scorpius, isn't it?" He heard himself saying, and Malfoy nodded, apparently pleased. "Yeah…he's a cute one. Looks just like you, though," he added before he could stop to think about how this sounded. "Right up to the black on black on black wardrobe." _Oh well, there's nothing for it now_, Harry told himself, and downed the rest of his beer. Malfoy chuckled.

"He dresses himself. He's quite obstinate. His mother tries to encourage him to dress less-conspicuously, but he's not one for subtlety, little Scorpius. I suppose he takes after his father too much."

"Oh, I don't know. I'd imagine you're decent at subtlety."

Malfoy furrowed his eyebrows, no doubt wondering-correctly-if Harry were simply contradicting him for the sake of being argumentative. But he did not take the bait. Instead, he turned back to his drink and seemed to be thinking of something else. Harry hoped perhaps their conversation was over, but thought ending it would be even more awkward than beginning it if he could not find a quick reason to take his leave.

"I haven't seen you here before, Potter. What's brought you out this way? On business?" He looked genuinely curious, but his eyes now held a more guarded expression. Harry did not know how to answer this, but he was growing tired of playing at being social. It took far too much energy. Honesty had always, on the other hand, been much more efficient.

"No, no…just trying a different scene. Not that I get out much," he replied, trying it. Let Malfoy think what he liked; Harry had other problems.

"Ah. I see. I thought you had a rather pensive look about you. Trouble at home?"

"Trouble?" Harry looked up at him, glaring evenly. So _that_ was it. Malfoy hoped to gloat over his unhappiness. "I don't think I said anything about trouble. But thank you for concerning yourself. I'm sure if I have any at all, you're _just_ the man I'll come to," he said scathingly. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. Malfoy's face fell and his grey eyes assumed their customary coldness. But his next words shocked Harry completely.

"Don't feel much like talking." He nodded, staring at the wall behind the bartender. "Or at least, not to the likes of me. I get it. Well, I'm sorry I bothered you."

"What?" Harry said stupidly, his conscience tingling.

"I see that you're still far above making conversation with the lesser of us wizards. Please pardon me for the insult; I'm accustomed to seeing the usual man overburdened with the cares of daily life in here. I'm unaccustomed to world saviors looking quite so pathetic, however." Malfoy tipped the rest of his scotch down and stood up, sliding it across the bar with a few Galleons. "If it won't offend your celestial majesty, I'll just scuttle away and go consort with some other mortals now. Hopefully they'll have better manners. A bottle of French pixie red," he said to the bartender, who promptly returned with Malfoy's purchase and collected the coins.

Harry was suddenly ashamed; he _had_ been unforgiveably rude. There had been nothing from Malfoy that lended credence to any of his suspicions, other than the fact that it _was_ Malfoy he was talking to; but how well had he ever known him in the first place? And what might he learn about him now, after all those years during which his life had become a mystery? He reached over and grabbed him-lightly-by the elbow as Malfoy turned to leave.

"Malfoy, wait! I'm…I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude."

"That's all right. You're drunk."

"I'm not!" Harry was horrified; from the amused expression on Malfoy's face, he hoped he was joking. "Please, won't you come back and join me for another moment?"

"What for? If a man wants to be alone with his problems, who am I to stand in the way?" But Malfoy _did_ sit back down…and it wasn't until much, much later that Harry would stop to think about how remarkable that was by itself. It was so strange to think that he was actually talking to Malfoy as if he were any other casual acquaintance. But he could not stop himself, for shame had chastised him into spilling his private thoughts as atonement. He looked at Malfoy, who sat half upon his stool, watching him expectantly. He took a deep breath.

"It's just Ginny and I. You know how it is," he stammered, "we've had a, a row. That's all. I suppose that's nothing new. You can laugh if you like…" and he was half afraid and half certain Malfoy would, but Malfoy's expression did not change. He merely waited, his grey eyes fixed upon him with mild curiosity. _Could it be he really _has_ grown up?_ He would never have guessed it if he had not talked to him.

"I expect I should consider it normal by now, I mean, what couple doesn't fight? But it's just, this one was so bad, I mean…we haven't spoken to each other in several days, and it was over something so unbelievably _stupid_…"

"How stupid?"

"Really, really stupid…"

"Well all right then, what was it? Are you just going to keep me in suspense? Or shall I guess?"

That was an idea.

"Sure, have a guess."

"All right," Malfoy said with a hint of his old drawl, his eyes surveying the room as he thought. "Something to do with the kids."

"Close."

"All right then, mutual friends."

"Even closer."

"All right then, let me see if I've got this right." Malfoy cracked his knuckles, looking particularly smug, and Harry, despite himself, was intrigued with the game. "Your kids were playing with someone else's. A good friend, of the family. There was some kind of conflict broke out; one took the other's toy and wouldn't give it back, or someone got hit, or teased, or something like that. They all ran to you crying, and the wife didn't like the way you chose to deal with it because the friend of the family's feelings were involved, and she wants you to have a talk with said friend of the family," he finished.

Harry's mouth had dropped gradually open as he talked. Of course, it had been much more complicated than that-the "friend" was actually his cousin in law, Bill, and _his_ wife, Fleur-and there had been other arguments with Ginny of an unrelated nature that added to their present conflict. These conveniently came up during the course of the argument over Lily and Victoire, and they had provided enough fuel for the entire explosion. But he was still astounded, and he was not sure if it were more because of Malfoy's cleverness, or the strangeness of hearing Malfoy talk about such utterly mundane things as breaking up children's fights.

"Dead on, am I"? Malfoy grinned, and suddenly, Harry felt light as a feather. Perhaps his inadequacy as a father and a husband wasn't so set in stone, after all.

"Might as well be. How did you do that?"

"Well, you gave the clues, I just filled in the inevitable details. You've seen my son," he added generously, and Harry, who had the feeling that Scorpius was otherwise a touchy subject for Malfoy, was impressed. "Well, you can just imagine how many parents I've had to mollify now and then, and he's really quite harmless."

"I somehow can't picture you as a father, Malfoy," Harry blurted, and then he blushed furiously. "I didn't mean that….wow, that was a truly horrible thing to say. Please, it's not-"

"It's all right, Potter, I know what you meant." And Harry could see that he really did. He was smiling, actually _smiling_. He wondered if he'd ever seen Malfoy smile before. There was something else in it too, though; a kind of tired wisdom brought about, perhaps, by grief?

"Thank you, Malfoy. It doesn't seem so bad to talk about it. It's much more complicated than a bunch of kids of course."

"Of course. It always is."

"But, all the same…" he shrugged, feeling awkward again. Malfoy said nothing for a moment, but seemed to be considering something. When he spoke again, Harry thought it was with some great effort.

"Look, if you don't have somewhere to be this evening, I'm off for home myself. If you'd like, we can continue this conversation in a more comfortable setting." Malfoy clapped his mouth shut then, as if abruptly deciding that there was nothing more to be said. He looked at Harry, waiting, and Harry knew that he was feeling the same sense of standing at an invisible crossroads that he felt. He could not help noticing that there was a naked vulnerability in his face; he had put himself in the delicate position of facing possible rejection. Harry knew his decision, however. He would not disappoint him, even if it _was_ Malfoy, and even if it _was_ uncomfortable.

"I'd be honored. If you're sure I won't bore you to death, that is."

"Not at all, quite the contrary. I'll confess, I'd be most interested to here about your domestic woes, Harry Potter." And a snakelike grin spread over Malfoy's face, but Harry knew it was the most honest thing Malfoy could have said. He laughed. "Well perhaps telling you will make them seem less tedious to me."

"Right then." Malfoy got up to leave and Harry followed, leaving his payment on the counter. As they exited and stood outside in the autumn chill, their breath coming out as light steam, Malfoy paused. "I usually make a stop on my way home. You don't mind?"

"Not at all," Harry said immediately, but he wondered at the odd, careful way Malfoy looked at him now, as he absent-mindedly fingered the bottle resting in the crook of his arm. "Lead the way. I've nowhere to be anytime soon."

"Good. I suppose you can tell me later why it is you aren't worried about Ginny expecting you home tonight."

"I'll start at the beginning, and by the end, you'll be sound asleep and will probably have the most rested repose you could ever hope for."

"I'll look forward to that, Potter," Malfoy laughed, and Harry marveled as they headed down the dark street, side by side, like old chums…


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: **_**Twysts**_

**Author's Note: **Thanks for the reviews; they are always helpful as well as motivating. More updates to come!

Draco Malfoy had married Hestia Zinsli soon after the official diffusion of the Death Eaters, nearly five years after the defeat and death of Voldemort. Although his was a very early marriage, at the time the urgency to marry had seemed real. He married Hestia to satisfy his parents, whose nagging antagonism he knew to be the disguise with which they clothed their terrible guilt.

It had been up to him to restore any respectability at all to the family name, and so when his mother berated him into attending tea with his distant cousin-he was lucky, she said, that anyone would take an interest him at _all_, after what had happened-the two had been married that very weekend.

A great deal was made of the wedding in a side-section of _The Daily Prophet,_ but in reality it had simply been the immediate family and the Minister of the Magical Families Census and Records Department in attendance. The couple spent its honeymoon at a Swiss mountain lodge, where Draco stood on a balcony for several hours, pondering the possibility of suicide. What saved him, however, was the discovery that his new bride was not such a bad person to be legally stuck with, actually.

Hestia was a tall, well-built witch with blond hair which she kept cropped short. (She had altered it for their wedding ceremony, and no one was the wiser.) She told him that keeping it that way helped release her from her family's stifling obsession with their identity, but it took a long time for that to make sense to Draco.

The wonderful thing he'd found, however, was that even though they'd known right off they would never love each other, Hestia actually seemed to _like_ him. He had been coupled before; at least, he thought he had. In his sixth year at Hogwarts, he had gone around with Pansy Parkinson; mostly because she pursued him hotly and he was too lukewarm about the matter to resist. But, when he looked back now upon his early life, Draco could see very easily that Hestia had been his first real friend.

"There was a ghost at Hogwarts once, she'd drowned herself years ago. When I joined the Death Eaters, I talked to her sometimes."

"What about your classmates? Your housemates…those guys, Crabbe and Goyle?" Hestia had asked, frowning. Her eyes were piercingly alive, and she had seemed riveted to Draco's sullen narrative about his life before marriage.

"No, I never talked to them about that stuff. I was their leader. They would have thought I'd gone off my head," he explained patiently, failing to see why should not understand. Even so, saying those words out loud, realizing that he had been so desperately lonely that his only friend had once been a ghost, made him feel desperately lonely all over again. Something about the way Hestia pressed him made a dam break inside, and Draco was weakened. She comforted him, and he let her…and then, incredibly, deliciously, she'd made him laugh.

She told him stories of her family, stories that went back generations even, she caricatured his own in her colorful, fierce language. She told him about her dreams, her dares, the many adventures she'd had in life and the many more she intended to have. Draco laughed until he cried all over again, but the second time, it felt so good…they talked late into the night, and by mid-morning as they awoke arms slung about each other, they had become the closest of friends.

The Malfoy heir was born two years later, to silence the family members, and also because both had admitted to wanting a child. Draco worried that his son would have no siblings, and had tried to explain to Hestia how difficult it had been for him to be an only child. But although she sympathized, she was unable to agree with him on a solution.

"I must be free, Draco darling," she had explained for what was by then the hundreth time. He always hated when she talked like that, because he knew it meant that he was once again alone. But he did not try to talk her out of it; so strong were her personal convictions that he knew better. "I cannot love in the way that your family and mine expect me to love. I have loved many before you, and I may love many more before I finally know what love is."

Draco had stiffened and nodded, turning from their bedroom and walking out into the nursery to gaze at the baby. Scorpius had been his deepest comfort then, but Hestia did not completely abandon him. What she suggested as a compromise shocked him; he had not considered an open marriage to be anything other than scandalous, and though it was fairly common in his social circle, it had not occurred to him that it might be something advantageous. The reason for this was, of course, that Draco still believed no one would ever love him, and despite Hestia's genuine friendship, her desire to live apart from him had only deepened his sense of ultimate rejection.

It had taken a long time, but Draco had eventually learned to see their marriage through more objective eyes. It was not too long before it occurred to him that he ought to be grateful for the convenience of Hestia's freedom, because it also ensured his own. Now, if only he could figure out what to _do_ with it! Hestia had returned often enough to visit him; she had a strong constitution, and loved to explore the world.

But she loved her son, and she also loved Draco, as a friend would love another friend. So, when she could, she made it a point to spend time with him. She also tried to save him unnecessary humiliation by being seen with him in public often enough to keep people from talking. Since the Malfoys had kept to themselves-and been left alone-after their downfall with the Death Eaters, no one much bothered about Draco's pictorial marriage.

The one thing Draco did look forward to most often, however, were Hestia's letters. He wrote to her avidly, sharing what there was of his life to share, and waited expectantly for when she would write back. No matter where she was or what she was doing, she _always_ wrote back. But it was her words that Draco hungered for most. Hestia seemed to him very wise; she understood his words even when he thought they poorly expressed whatever conflicts he struggled to articulate.

And her return letters addressed his thoughts and feelings and unspoken musings with great care and detail. Whenever he finished a letter, Draco felt a mysterious, bright sense of cleansing. He was lighthearted for the rest of the day, because writing to her had unburdened him. Little by little, this friendship nourished his life; both this, and his love for Scorpius. But Draco still was painfully aware of what his life lacked. Unlike Hestia, he had no idea how to pick up the incomplete pieces of himself and, on his own strength of will alone, walk into the risks and adventures which exploring love and romance might bring to him.

He was much more careful with his heart than Hestia was with hers, but because of this, he ached. He longed very much to know the regular affection of being touched, even though this desire was so deep and so sacred to him that he never, ever acknowledged it to himself. His very demeanor had become more stiff over the years, and his clothing, in addition, which seemed very austere, served to add to his aura of loftiness. When Harry noticed the way Scorpius's father dressed him, Draco had been slightly disconcerted to realize how he was already unconsciously dooming his son to a similar fate. He would have to think about this, very carefully.

When he said good bye to Potter in the early hours of the morning after they'd met in the tavern the night before, the first thing Draco did was go up to his study. Although he was heir to Malfoy Manor, he had chosen to purchase a new mansion, insisting that his parents stay where they were comfortable. Luckily for him, this had not been a difficult fight at all. They seemed rather inclined to like the idea, especially since they knew he would continue their lavish lifestyle in a home more to his liking.

In truth, of course, Draco thought he could not abide another moment in the old manor, with all its memories, and he had no desire to stay in the neighborhood where all the older "pureblood" families still largely resided. So he moved into a newer home, in which there had been a slightly more mixed social group. The house was one of several that sat upon a small hill, just far enough away to be left alone, but close enough for him to go into town and interact with his neighbors when he so chose. Many of his companions from Slytherin had made similar moves; after all, it was a younger generation, and times had changed.

In the quiet of the morning, Draco sat at his desk and bent over a piece of parchment, writing so furiously he was unaware that he had bitten his tongue. The tangy taste of blood did not bother him; writing to Hestia was the important thing. The trance it put him in made him relive the night all over again, and just as with so many other letters, this one brought emotions and thoughts to the surface that he had not even known were buried deep inside him.

_My dearest wife of convenience, I hope this letter finds you quite well among the Baltic vampires. If I found out that you have become one yourself, incidentally, I hope you will forgive me if I take the precaution of changing the locks and dressing the house in garlic. That being said, I would very much like to hear more about your exploits; you know how much I love to live your exciting life vicariously._

_Speaking of "living," I know it is a subject very close to your heart; especially when it comes to me. I have something rather interesting to tell you, actually, and I expect you will be rather pleased. Last night I went to the tavern again. Ran into some old friends, and that was all right, although they were headed to yet another party to which I was not-formally-invited. Even so, you'll never guess whom I encountered: The Boy Who Lived. I must tell you, old Harry Potter has grown into quite an average wizard._

_He appeared to be very troubled, and it was very odd to see him there at all. I am fairly sure it is the first time he has been in that part of town. Well, what's even more astounding, Hestia, is the fact that for some reason I cannot explain, I decided to talk to him. I believe I actually felt sorry for him! Turns out, he was having some trouble with his own wife. His domestic life is quite intriguing. I have to confess there were many times over the course of the evening that I had to exercise some self-restraint, or else I was going to burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all. You see, he is quite melodramatic._

_But I'm wandering far from the topic. You know how much I hated Potter in school, Hestia, and how deeply mutual our loathing. You also know how he saved my life, and how I attempted, albeit poorly, to save his when my family was trapped by Aunt Bellatrix and Lord Voldemort. You know also how hard it has been for me to carry this burden, to know that the man I once hated more than anyone in the world was the one to whom I owed my life. It has been difficult for me to know quite what to do when I see him, as you noted at the station that day when we sent Scorpius to school. My mother has never quite recovered; it is a subject of which she never seems to tire._

_At any rate, it seemed at the time that perhaps I could do him a favor, even if it was a small one, by lending a listening ear. No doubt you will understand also, as I did, that this was largely my own pride. At first he was rather hostile, but then-haha!-I shamed him into civility. I suppose he was happy to talk to me, because he agreed to join me later that evening at our home. _

_On the way, you may not believe it, but I paid my usual visit to Crabbe's grave. I took Potter there. He was struck quite dumb when I poured my "libation," and you know how serious he always was; he treated the whole matter as a very somber affair. Still, it was strange, to let him see my most private ritual. Poor Crabbe, what a fool. If he only knew! I reckon he's spinning in his grave. The thought does make me smile._

_Well, all in all, it was a very interesting evening. I listened to Potter talk for a long time, and it was strange how easily he talked with me, even though in the pauses we were so careful with each other…so_ _very__careful. But I found with Potter, as I once found with you, my dear, that when a person feels alone there are few restraints as to whom will be perceived an appropriate confidante. _

_I find myself wondering, now that he is gone-he stayed here all night! We never slept.-what it all means. I wonder if the spell is gone with the night, but I have the oddest feeling that it is not. Even so, I hope-no, I know you understand, when I say that if it had to happen, I am glad it happened under those circumstances. Although I am sure Potter still does not think much of me, I'm glad for once that it was me helping him, even if only in a small way._

_I am quite amused and, I will admit, even a bit nervous about what happens next. What will Potter say, when I run into him next? What if I don't for a very long time? Was that all there was to it? It would be a bit disappointing, as it is the most "excitement" I've had in a very long time. Oh well. Anyway, as always, I miss your bright company, but look forward to your reply. Please think of me and Scorpius while you are gone, and don't let it be too long before we see you again. You wouldn't want your son to forget you, would you? (Please don't send me a howler; I know you hate it when I use guilt as a weapon. You know I can't help it. I'm so very good at it.)_

_Your friend and husband,_

_Draco Malfoy_

Draco looked at his letter and took a deep breath. As usual, he felt unloaded and purged of all the excitement and confusion from the night before. Now, however, he was tired. He would send the letter, and go to bed. When he woke up, perhaps he would awake to his usual, uneventful life again, and perhaps that wouldn't be such a bad thing…


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: **_**Twysts**_

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the long silence; I was out of town! I'm going again this weekend, and will be gone for five days next week so updating might be spotty. But I promise I will update as often as I can and keep the story moving.

Also, I know the story jumps around a bit. I'm trying to find ways to put more cues to help with orientation. Basically, it switches between two viewpoints (Harry and Draco) and two time periods (past and present). The storyline of their friendship is being told simultaneously with their present conflict. Hope it helps.

Thanks as always for the reviews!

* * *

"_What_ did you say Harry?" Ron laughed, catching him off guard. He hadn't realized he'd been murmuring out loud.

"Oh…nothing. Just something funny someone said a few nights ago." They were sitting in Ron's office, pouring over articles from _The Daily Prophet_ that had been published in the last five years. Tracking the activity of wizards and witches with pureblood sympathies was painstaking work; while there was no doubt that even mentioning the word "pureblood" was highly unpopular these days, such revivalist troublemakers were both dangerous and persistent.

"Well what was it, mate? What about being a racist?"

"Oh. You know, it's really weird. You'll think I'm crazy," Harry joked, but inside his stomach twisted into a nervous knot whenever he thought about bringing up his encounter with Malfoy. He was not sure why, but he was definitely questioning whether or not he was ready to tell Ron. But it might be too late, now, judging by the way Ron was looking at him. _I've known you long enough to know when you're keeping something from me,_ the look said. "It's just, Crabbe's name came up a few minutes ago. Reminded me of something…Malfoy said."

"Malfoy?! What'd he say?" They hadn't mentioned that name in a long time, and the only time they ever talked about Draco Malfoy was to make some kind of derisive joke, or relive some of their school days.

"Well, okay…first, I have to explain something. But I don't want it getting out just yet, yeah?"

"You're totally confusing me, Harry."

Harry put down his pile of papers with a plop and looked at his best friend. Ron was a red-headed, lanky guy who towered a little over other men their age. He had always worn an expression that would make most people think he was a little out of the loop with whatever was going on at the moment, but over the years, Harry had seen that expression sharpen in his eyes. Once, a long time ago, Harry had thought Ron was incapable of confidence. Luckily, that too had changed, and he was now recognized as one of the shrewdest Aurors in England.

"Okay. Here's the thing. I was out the other night…well, a few nights ago, and I popped into a tavern. Just to have a drink and get out a bit, you know?" He didn't see any point in mentioning the fight with Ginny, although there might be a chance she'd already told him herself.

"By yourself?"

Harry ignored this.

"You'll never guess who was sitting right next to me. Malfoy," he said, answering Ron's open-mouthed expression of interest. "At first, I thought, I'll just ignore him, cause I'm sure as hell not gonna leave and give him the satisfaction; and then, he struck up a conversation with me-"

"_Mal_foy?"

"Yeah. And he was all, 'hey want to shoot the breeze for a bit, mate?' And I said, 'sure.' So we left the pub-"

"_Together?!?!"_

"Are you going to let me finish or not?"

Ron clamped his mouth shut, looking both incredulous and amused.

"Right. So he said, 'I've got to make this one stop on the way home.'" Ron, Harry could see, was mouthing the question he was polite enough not to ask yet: _You agreed to go to his _house "Next thing I know, we stop off at this cemetery. And Malfoy, he takes me up the path to this grave. And guess whose it is? Crabbe's."

Harry's introduction was followed by astonished silence. When he realized that Ron was now too invested in the story to interrupt again, he continued. Now that he was talking about it with Ron, there was something enjoyable about it. But he still swallowed a feeling of nervousness in his gut; he had not yet decided for himself what to think of his evening with Malfoy.

"Malfoy had a bottle of wine with him, and he proceeded, Ron, to take out the stopper and chug some down himself. Then, he holds it out over Crabbe's grave, and pours some of it on. And he's like, 'Crabbe. Poor racist bastard.' And I was just so _shocked_, Ron, I…just…I laughed! And then I felt _horrible_, but I couldn't stop. And you know, he laughed, too! But it really blew me away. I actually felt, I dunno…bad for him. Weird, yeah?"

Ron was shaking his head as Harry stammered to a stop.

"Bleedin' weird," Ron agreed. "That's priceless. _Crabbe_ a racist bastard. What does he think _he_ is, then? What, he's all _reformed_ or something?" He snorted. "Interesting. But you know, that still doesn't explain _why_ you were out there at all, Harry, and whatever in the w_orld_ made you get it into your head to spend an evening with him. What's _that_ all about?"

Harry shrugged, feeling a little defensive all of a sudden.

"I dunno. Guess you had to be there. He was pretty normal, actually. Civil, I mean."

"Still."

"Yeah, well. You know how it is."

_No, I really don't,_ Ron's expression said, but he gracefully let the matter drop. Harry knew it wasn't the last he'd hear about it; and it wasn't, but aside from repeated jokes about the trip to Crabbe's grave, he maintained a stubborn silence whenever the matter was brought up again.

The truth was, he had been uncomfortably moved by Malfoy's homage to his old friend. He could tell from the nearly unconscious way Malfoy navigated through the streets to the cemetery that it was a trip he made regularly, and he was touched by this loyalty. Malfoy's laughter, which had not seemed forced in the least, only increased his sense of tragedy.

The following night he'd lain awake thinking about it for quite some time, and ever since, he was plagued by thoughts of the next move. _I wonder if I should drop him an owl_, he asked himself repeatedly. He had no answer for this dilemma; there was no stronger feeling either for or against, and this was immensely frustrating.

He had not yet told Ginny.

His conversation with Ron, however, made him feel that it was time he did. After all, if there was anything they needed right now, it was _more_ communication and trust, not less.

On the day of his confession to Ron, he came home to find Ginny almost on her way out of the door for an extra practice session with the Hollyhead Harpies.

"D'ya have a minute?" He asked after kissing her tenderly. They carefully embraced.

"I'm running late. What is it?"

"Just something I want to tell you. I need your help figuring something out."

"Why is it you always need me when I'm about to walk out the door? And late, no less?" She was trying not to chide him, but this was one of her most common complaints.

"Nevermind. It can wait." He rubbed her arm and took Lily, who lay slumped over her shoulder, into his other.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I'm sure. Only, remind me when you get home, okay?"

"Is it important?"

"Not very," he said offhandedly, unnerved by the gleam of alarm in her eyes. "Just something I could use your help with. You're much better at sticking to decisions than I am." He kissed her again, truly appreciative this time; he was struck with the small epiphany that he had missed her quite a bit lately. When had _that_ happened? When had they begun to be so busy that they hardly had any time for each other anymore? He would have to file that away for careful thought, later.

Ginny turned up her chin and met his lips, her eyes closed as if in remembered bliss. He felt warmth between them that reminded him of the early years of their marriage.

"I won't forget, then. I'm sorry I'm rushing out this way."

"It's all right. Go to your practice. Kick some witches off their brooms." he smiled and winked, roguishly. She shook her head, smiling. "What would you do if I had played you that way in Quidditch?"

"I would never survive you being on the other team, Gin."

"I know."

Several weeks went by, and Harry still had made no progress with his dilemma. He was starting to feel like a self-important prat for his behavior, when Malfoy saved him the bother of having to act at all.

It was a perfect, crisp day in late autumn when Harry came home to an empty house. The children were being watched by Molly, what with Ginny's practices having picked up for the season and his sporadic, late nights at the Ministry. He did not quite know what to do with himself when the house was so quiet, and sometimes wondered how he'd ever made it through his summers at the Dursleys' without going insane.

He had just flopped down on an armchair in the sunroom, staring listlessly out of the window, when the tiny dot of an approaching owl began to grow directly in his line of vision. Curious, he watched it until he could see the unfamiliar owl about a hundred feet away. Then he opened the windows with a flick of his wand. The owl, a speckled, dignified-looking grey bird with amber eyes, flew straight to his arm without pausing and landed, its tiny claws clipping his skin and sending prickles shivering up his body. He gently removed the bird and extracted the attached letter, which had been fancifully tied with a green, silk ribbon.

His pulse slightly quickening, Harry somehow knew from whom it came before he'd even unrolled it. _Here goes,_ he thought ominously. But if Malfoy had thought him rude for his long silence, there was no trace of this in his message, which simply read:

_Potter:_

_Going for a short trip to the Emerald Isle for some mucking about. Will you join me?_

_Sincerely,_

_Draco Malfoy_

He stared at the letter. _Will you join me?_ Malfoy, he was certain, had mysteriously crafted those words so that they left little room for rejection. Care_ to join me_ would have been more appropriate. Why the implied expectation, instead of polite invitation? Was Malfoy so desperate for company? The thought was a little repulsive; not that he hadn't very much enjoyed their last encounter. It had, in fact, been refreshing, he realized, and noticed that for the first time in several weeks he was finally able to put the awkward feeling he had into words. He had been unable to explain this fact to Ron.

_All right_, he thought, getting up and pacing around the couch, _let's say it's not desperation. _There was another explanation; being a Malfoy, he expected perhaps to be instantly obliged whenever he made a request. While this idea was not any more inviting than the previous, it had a different effect for Harry; he respected Malfoy's boldness. There was something about his casual, yet deliberate _request_ that communicated a sense of equal footing. It was _desire_, not desperation; and Malfoy wanted him to know it.

As soon as he came to this revelation, Harry was flattered; Malfoy was willing to put aside his pride to show Harry that he had enjoyed his company enough to ask for it a second time? Did wonders never cease? Not only that, but hadn't the request come at just the perfect time; hadn't he been sitting there a second before, bordering on despondency because his wife had something to do, and he did not? An impromptu trip to Ireland. What a wonderful idea. It was just the kind of spontaneity he needed, and besides, with the company of Malfoy, he was bound to have more of the same stimulating discussion. Maybe he would learn more about his old school rival, and have more to tell Ron later. If he chose to, that is.

Even though he procrastinated sending his reply, Harry already knew his decision long before he finally went to his desk and brought out parchment of his own.

_Sounds like a wonderful idea. Thanks for the invitation. I'll Apparate to your house?_

_HP_

He sent off the reply, ignoring the protestation of his prudent inner voice, which begged him to consider the fact that Malfoy had not actually come out and said, "right this minute." Somehow, Harry knew this was meant to be an instantaneous trip. He was sure Malfoy would have said otherwise if it were the case, and even so, it seemed more appropriate that he would ask on a whim, in the moment. It was what he would have done, after all…because how do you strategically plan to grow a friendship with an old enemy? He had been trying for several weeks, and hadn't been able to. This made much more sense. _I'm glad he thought of it first_, he thought sheepishly, as he went to the hall closet for a coat.

* * *

"What's the problem?"

"Why did you write to my wife without telling me?"

"I'm awfully busy, Harry. Didn't you speak to Hubie?"

"Don't waste my time, Draco. I can't believe you would do something like this. What did you think, that I was just going to let it happen? I told you, it's over."

"No, you did _not_ tell me it was over," Draco said firmly, shifting in his chair so that he could look into the fire directly. Harry's sullen face hovered above the flame, looking greenish-yellow and eerie in the otherwise dark room. He had been drowsing over a book on the history of Aurors in England when Harry had interrupted him. He had, however, expected such an interruption at some point, even though he did not let on to Harry.

"What you said," he continued, "Was that you could not stand never being able to have what you wanted. Now, I've been a privileged wizard in my lifetime, Harry, and therefore I can sympathize with the occasional need to have your cake and eat it, too." He had to stifle a chuckle at Harry's darkening frown. "I'm fairly good at figuring out ways to do this, because I'd rather not go without. So when I got what I could only take to be your desperate cry for help, I decided to take matters into my own hands and come to your rescue. What else should a good lover do?"

Harry grimaced. Draco knew he hated it when he used that word.

"Take matters into your own hands? Draco, you are _ruining_ my marriage."

"No, I'm not. _You_ are. And it's not ruined, yet. Don't be such a defeatist."

"This isn't a joke!"

"I'm not joking, Harry. Just calm down for a second. What have I done? All I did was send a polite message to your wife. _She's_ the one who decided to invite me over for dinner. Seemed rather agreeable about it, in fact. What's wrong with that? The two of you were barely even _speaking, _or anything other than screaming, even, before I stepped in. Doesn't that tell you something?"

Frustrated, he stood up and strode a few feet in the direction of the fire, stopping in the middle of the floor to look into Harry's face, which was tight with distraught. Harry looked up at him, his eyes blazing with their own greenish hue.

"Why are you doing this?" Harry asked softly. Draco cursed and turned away, exasperated.

"Now you're just being dramatic. Doing _what_, for crissakes?! Didn't I say I was trying to help? You ought to trust me."

"I trust," Harry slowly replied, seeming to reconsider his plan of attack, "that you mean the best. I know you care for me. All I'm saying is that this is a matter that does not concern you. I made a mistake, Draco."

"It does concern me, Harry, whether you like it or not." Draco heard his voice grow cold, reminding him of his father. A few more minutes of _this_, and all he had worked for with Harry, all their friendship and their devotion, would be severely compromised. He would not let that happen. Harry would understand later; right now, he had to keep him in the dark. He was still far too innocent to take _certain_ kinds of risks, even if he _was_ a Gryffindor.

"It's too late now, anyhow. Your wife has invited me already. Did she tell you?"

"You could say no."

"I'm not going to, Harry. And you know, deep down, that you don't want me to. You know you want a resolution to all this, just as much as I do."

"It's too late for that! You can't be a part of our lives, Draco! It's my fault, yes. I should have done it months ago. But it's too late, now. You can't possibly imagine she will want you to remain a friend of our family."

"Why don't you let her have the opportunity she deserves, to meet me and decide for herself? Don't you owe her that much, Harry?" God, he was resorting to using guilt again. But he _was_ so very _good_ at it…

Harry stared stonily at him for a second more, then disappeared into the flames.

"So that's how you end an argument where you don't get your way, is it? No wonder Ginny's ready to kick your head in," he muttered affectionately, only mildly annoyed now that Harry was gone. He took a deep breath. "Hestia, I trust you. I hope you're right about this one." He closed the book he'd left lying on the chair and went upstairs to undress for bed. He knew, however, that he'd spend most of the night counting the minutes until his dinner with the Potters. If nothing got in the way of his plan, Harry would see that he knew what he was doing all along. He was going to make things right; after all, that was what you did when you loved someone, wasn't it?


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: **_**Twysts**_

**Author's Note: **Going out of town again, but taking the laptop! So I will try to update, but if I don't have internet, it will have to wait till next week. I could use some help from anyone who's interested, however; I would like to change the title of this story to something more true to the plot, and more interesting. Any ideas? Thanks, as always, for the reviews and enjoy this latest update! It's one of my favorite parts. ;)

* * *

It had never been Draco's idea. The affair started with Harry; they both knew that. Draco was gracious enough not to throw this in Harry's face. But he knew he would be lying to himself if he denied the power Harry's admiration held over him. He had fallen madly back in love with Harry, because he himself had needed to be loved madly.

It had started imperceptibly and with great caution. And in the beginning, it had only been friendship. That trip to Ireland was what began it, Draco often mused when he sat and thought of Harry's dark, adoring eyes and blushed with a warm tingle. They'd spent the whole day together, and somehow, carefully, painfully, Draco let Harry learn about his life. First, Harry told Draco about life with Ginny. He told about how their marriage had been like a perfect fairy tale in the beginning, but that something had happened after the first seven years.

"They say that's around the time when it happens anyway, the cooling off," Harry had remarked wryly.

But after Draco listened patiently to him, he found more and more that the questions shifted to him and his own life. He had not known how to field these questions off. He wanted Harry to know about him, to know about Hestia, and all the things he had felt and become after the fall of Voldemort. He wanted Harry to know of the pain of his mother's separation from his father, after he had been released from Azkaban in exchange for leaving the country; all this had happened shortly after Draco's marriage.

But he also _didn't _want Harry to know how much of a failure he'd become. There was a part of him that still wished to remain a secret, to protect the "mystique" that seemed to attract Harry while it repelled everyone else. He wrote to Hestia often about this conflict, and it had been her strength that kept him resolved to allow the friendship to deepen in spite of his fears. When pressed further about his wife on the trip to Ireland, Draco said she reminded him of his cousin Nymphadora. Then Harry shared with Draco his memories of her brief life with the Order of the Pheonix and her marriage to Remus Lupin, their former Dark Arts professor.

Draco had felt hollow inside later, when he lay awake, thinking about how strange and how _wrong_ it was that Harry had gotten to know and be close to his cousin before her death, and he hadn't. At least, he thought miserably, he had Hestia.

During that month, Harry had several other rows with Ginny, some of them simply cold and mutually distant, but others a bit nastier. Apparently, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, Harry's best friends, had gone abroad at that time, so Draco found himself fast filling in for their absence. He had to admit to Hestia that he had taken great private satisfaction in this. His constant worry that Harry would pity him was absolved by the gradual realization that it was just the opposite; Harry seemed to become more fascinated with his new confidante every day. He thought it rather amusing that Harry even seemed to think he was wise.

It had been impossible to keep Harry from getting close.

_You could if you wanted to badly enough,_ Hestia told him. He never came right out and admitted the nature of his relationship with Harry, but in retrospect, he figured she must have known all along. His words must have dripped with hidden meanings, so passionate, so _absorbed_ had he been with his secret.

"Ever heard of Ruggets?" He said to Harry one day while Ron and Hermione were still away. They were lying out on his patio, enjoying the smell of the smoky, autumn air. Harry had needed some cheering up and sent him an owl, asking if he were busy that afternoon. Luckily, he had not been. He was thrilled, too, when he got the note, because he had been pacing excitedly around his estate, trying to fight the urge to write Harry and tell him about his new craze.

"No, what is it?"

"A game. Like Quidditch. No brooms involved, though." Harry listened wide-eyed, while Draco described the game.

"I think there's a Muggle version of that," he'd finally commented. "They call it rugby."

Draco shrugged and rolled his eyes.

"I suppose there would be. Anyway, it's the latest rage with the younger ones. I can't believe you've never heard of it. Don't you read the_ Prophet_? Couple of parents tried to sue Hogwarts, awhile back. On account of their kid's sustained injuries. Never went anywhere, of course. They were overprotective anyway."

"What do you mean?" Harry had laughed. "It's worse than _Quidditch_?"

"Come on, I'll show you. I can't believe you've never heard of it."

Harry quickly became just as obsessed with Ruggets, and before he knew it, they were playing almost every chance they got. It was addictive; the feeling that, after all those years of living "normal" lives, they could still be young again, still strong and on the brink of adventure at every turn. Draco knew that was why he loved the game, and he had no doubt it was the same for Harry. It even seemed that Harry had grown more attractive each time they played; his emerald eyes lit up with a competitive, predatory passion, his arms began to look more toned and the color and angles of manhood returned to his face, replacing the softer, looser skin of age.

He wondered sometimes if Harry saw the changes he felt in himself, as well. Though neither could rightly claim to be middle-aged, they had both felt as if they were. They both got a great laugh when Harry told him how he'd paralyzed Ron with shock when he discovered Harry already knew how to play.

"Ron's formidable, though. I'm half afraid he's going to knock my head off my shoulders one of these days."

"You play him, too?" Draco hoped his voice did not betray the sudden sharp tinge of envy he felt.

"Nah, no time really. Anyway, like I said, I think I'd seriously get hurt if I played him. I want to wait until I get a little better. No offense, but with you I actually stand a chance."

"Thanks a lot."

Ruggets brought them closer together, and finally, Draco told Harry about his father. It came spilling out one day without his permission, as they stopped by Crabbe's grave after a stop by the tavern. Harry had looked right into him with piercing eyes, his brows pushed together in the middle of his forehead with concentration.

Draco could barely stand the intensity of this sudden interest, and he had turned away, feeling ashamed. It made him angry, but then he remembered Hestia, who had taught him how angered covered pain and clouded trust. He looked back at Harry, meeting his eyes with a frank sort of openness, and he actually felt Harry entering his memories willingly for all of a second or two before Harry dropped his gaze, embarrassed.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that. I've never been able to do it before…"

"I let you. Don't worry," Draco reassured him, toughened by Harry's discomfort. "It happens sometimes." He grinned. And then, he could have sworn that Harry's face was bathed in a deep blush, perceptible even in the darkness of the cemetery.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you let me see that? You, and your dad?"

"Well, I don't know what you saw exactly, it was a bit foggy and happened pretty quickly. But it wasn't intentional." He suspected that the memory Harry referred to was either an early one from his childhood, during which he'd made some feeble attempt to impress his father in the desperate hopes of earning praise; either that, or the shouting match he'd had with his parents when they insisted that he meet Hestia.

"It was just a feeling, actually…some very strong feelings. I can't even remember what I saw now, if anything. But still…you've been an Occlumens for a long time now. How was it that you couldn't stop me from getting in?"

"I told you, Harry, I didn't _try_ to stop you." He had been a little annoyed. "I just let you in. I didn't mean to do that specifically, I was just…open."

"I know. That's what I mean. You were open…to me."

Draco had stared at Harry then, uncomprehending but feeling terribly awkward at the same time. What could he possibly say to this? Harry too fell silent, understanding that there were some things you simply did not say to your mates yet he had already put their friendship in jeopardy by saying one of them. Finally he shrugged, and drank one more toast to Crabbe before customarily pouring the bottle of wine over the grave.

"Here's to you, Crabbe, you dumb Thestral dropping."

Harry did not laugh this time, but smiled…almost _fondly_.

"May I?"

And Draco, as if his hands were staging a mutiny, handed Harry the bottle.

He knew after that night that Harry _did_ pity him, and it had been hard to swallow. For a few weeks after, he sent no owls to Harry. Then one came to him, asking if he'd be up for another game. He gave his consent and Harry had Apparated to his front porch, looking dark and angry.

"What's with you?"

"I need to blow off some steam."

"Let's have at it, then," he said simply, summoning the Ruggets ball from the den. He did not question Harry, and did not need to. Harry seemed to forget all about whatever had enraged him, and Draco knew if it were important enough he'd find out eventually anyway. That's when he realized how close they'd gotten-

Then, as he ran across the open meadow on the back of his land to catch the soaring ball, a blinding light shattered his vision and pain knocked the wind from him as it struck under his rib cage. He let out a grunt like a wheezy bellows and fell to the ground, skidding painfully on his back in the grass for several hundred feet as he grasped at the ball that had lodged itself into his stomach.

"Draco!!!" He heard Harry shout from far away. The skin on his back burned. He stared straight up into the bright, blue sky, trying to catch his breath. The ball tumbled from his hands and into Harry's, who had summoned his broom from off field and flown up.

_That cloud looks like Crabbe's fat head_, he thought dreamily half a second before the dark outline of Harry's face blocked his view.

"Oh god. That felt good."

"Are you all right, mate?! I didn't have a chance to warn you…"

_Mate_, Harry had called him. That was pretty wonderful.

"I think I'll be fine. Just had the wind knocked out of me. Got to rest here for a moment." He looked into Harry's face, which was bent down over his, and thought uneasily that he could not understand why he looked so upset.

"Are you sure you don't want me to find some help?"

"I'm sure," he insisted, thinking it was rather ridiculous of Harry to even ask this question. "I feel I ought to be asking," he said between wheezes, "if _you're_ all right. You look like you're the one who got hit instead of me." Flecks of light and dark seemed to pass over his eyes as he blinked. He tried to smile, even though his ribs felt like they were on fire. He was vaguely aware of a small, warm pressure resting lightly on his abdomen. _Healer's hands they are not_, he thought with a sort of mild delirium, marveling at the sensation of Harry's rough fingers against his skin. His _skin!_ Was his shirt still pulled just up from the undignified slide across the ground?

Harry seemed unable to speak, or unwilling-or like there was something he wanted to say, but he was choking on it. Draco looked into his eyes, his uneasiness beginning to turn into alarm. Those green eyes stared back into his as they had that night at the graveyard, but this time they held nothing but fear, and some kind of awful, torturous _yearning. _Draco froze, unable to look away.

Harry was leaning over him on one elbow, his chest several inches from his. As if suddenly realizing he had touched Draco, he removed his hand and placed it, instead, to the other side of Draco's head, bracing himself against the ground.

"What is it?" Draco finally managed to whisper, and he became painfully aware that his heart was now thudding in his chest because he had barely been able to speak without shaking. He still could not look away, but terror was taking hold of him.

Harry swallowed, and seemed to gather himself. For an awful moment, Draco was not sure if he were going to speak, or kiss him.

"Draco…" he said, his voice deep and throaty. So he _did_ have something he wanted to say, something that could not wait any longer. Whatever it was-he knew what it was-Draco couldn't bear to hear it. His paralysis broke and he squiggled out from under Harry, standing so suddenly he almost collapsed again from dizziness. _No, it _can't _be!_ He had to get away from Harry. He backed away as if to run, his pulse still racing. Then Harry, who had stood just as suddenly, took one step toward him and stopped, giving him such a _pitiful_, apologetic look that Draco felt certain he would not be pursued.

Stifling his impulse to run, he turned on his heel and walked briskly away, his mind flooded with incoherent protestations. He did not stop to look back, not caring if Harry followed or were left out in the field by himself. The incident had frightened him so badly that he decided he needed another impromptu trip to Ireland; he could not stomach the thought of being alone in his house after what had passed between them. He limped up the steps to the patio, still slightly gasping from the soreness in his ribs. When he turned around and looked back at the field, Harry had disappeared.


	7. Chapter 7

**Title:** Twysts (still in the market for a better title.)

**Author's Notes:** I know, I know…these take me WAY too long.

* * *

_Dear Hestia,_

_I have something very strange to tell you. I'm a little afraid of what you'll think of me. I know it's going to sound pathetic. But I've got to tell someone. __I told you how I've been playing __Ruggets__ with Harry? __The other day, I was going for the ball, when I fell and slid on the grass. My back burned like hell! Harry came over to me to see if I was all right, which I know in __itself__ is not odd. But after I told him I was, he sort of leaned down over me…and this is the part I know you will laugh at; PLEASE don't laugh, Hestia. I swear to you, I almost thought he was going to kiss me for a moment__. And I don't think I am completely off my head. Something has happened between us. Something has changed. I thought it was just that we were getting closer, but…_

_This is far beyond my relationship experience. And to think I've had so few friendships as it is, and the one that I thought would be the most important-besides yours-I have all the luck in the world, don't I? _

_I miss you a lot. I wish you'd come home, but I know that's too much to hope for._

_Forget I said those things; you know I just need __someone to talk to now and then. By tomorrow I'm sure I'll have gotten over my paranoia._

_Love always,_

_Draco_

* * *

He did not expect to hear from Draco again. 

"It's for you," Ginny said sweetly one day after almost a week of moping. She kissed him on the forehead, handed him a rolled piece of parchment and left him, puzzled, sitting up in bed. "I'll bring some tea," she called through the closed door.

He could see Draco's name before he'd even removed the green ribbon.

_Going to the Island again.__You coming?__ You'__ve got fifteen minutes. (From the time you read this letter.)_

Harry sprang up and was already putting on his clothes when Ginny came back with the tea; he was so flustered with his own thoughts he only took momentary notice of the smile on her face.

"Going to see him?"

"Yeah. Might be an all day thing. Is that all right?" He suddenly felt guilty; he had not even asked her if she had any plans for the day.

"Yeah. Go on. Mum's been asking me to bring the kids by, and I might do a little shopping with Hermione."

"You're a jewel, Ginny," He replied, kissing her.

"I'm glad you've patched things up, then."

"Who says we fought?"

He grinned as Ginny rolled her eyes and returned to the doorway, where she turned back to give him a stern glare.

"Just don't stay out all night without popping through the floo to let me know, all right? And I want to know _sooner_, rather than later, whether you'll be joining us for dinner."

"I love you."

He stubbed his toe on the foot of the bed trying to get to his broom-which, usually to Ginny's fury, was _not_ downstairs in the broom closet where it belonged-and, heart in his throat, leaped impulsively from their window, catching himself mid-fall on his broom. He had a lot of thinking to do, and traveling by broom would give him the time he needed…

Because it was not something he liked to think about very often, he had been having bisexual fantasies for as long as he could remember in his adulthood. Whether or not it had begun before then, he could not be certain; sexuality was so much more muddled before one had a first sexual experience. Who knew what was what?

Then again, he thought, frowning, as the cold wind whipped through his hair and seeped under his clothes, there was that _one _time…

"I always said you got married rather fast, Harry,_" _Hermione had once told him. Harry never forgot this. He had been in his early twenties when the hunger for sexual adventure began to pang at him. By then it was too late, though; he and Ginny were married the moment she turned seventeen. He had been nineteen. The first few years of their marriage were marked by a settling into domesticity and their respective careers. Ginny had begun playing Quidditch competitively, and it was not long before Harry could see that she far surpassed him in skill; in fact, he had somewhat suspected from the very beginning.

As soon as Ginny began playing Quidditch, something happened. Harry experienced a strange sense of having plateaued into normalcy, and found that when Ginny wasn't around, he never quite knew what to do with himself. It was difficult for him to come home to an empty house, and so he plunged himself into his work. It was not hard; it would be several years before sensitivity to pre-war conflict in the wizarding world would dull with the routine of work.

But just as he was settling into his work with Ron and getting used to supporting Ginny at her own life's passion, he was troubled by the very inconvenient discovery that he was bisexual. Now, this was a word he never dared to speak out loud, but it had come to him like a beacon in the middle of the night as he and Ron were traveling in Belgium, rooting out a colony of post-Voldemort supremicists.

They'd had a little too much to drink with some of the new allies they'd made at a local bar-at least, that's how Harry'd always excused it in Ron's presence-and there was one particular male vampire who had taken a liking to him. Harry always remembered that night as the night in which he'd been "funny." It seemed to him, afterward, from the reports of their friends and colleagues, that he'd been the life of the party-and a source of great amusement that evening.

With the dark-haired, full-lipped vampire sitting on Harry's lap, he had reputedly been loudly touting the "bright side" of the war with Voldemort, and how it had increased dialogue and assuaged distrust between various magical races.

"Take this here young man, for example," he'd exclaimed loudly, as he looked into his counterpart's amused eyes. "A moment ago, I'd have been scared witless just to be in the same room with him after nightfall. Now here he is, we're as close as close can be! I rather think there must be advantages to being friends with a vampire."

For reasons he could not understand, everyone laughed, while Ron had a mixture of shock, amusement and horror on his face.

"I assure you, there are many," the vampire had murmured into his ear, just loud enough to get an enthusiastic reaction from their audience. Harry turned to him then, a thrill racing across his skin, and in uncharacteristic boldness-he'd been feeling aroused all day; he often did when away from Ginny for a prolonged period-he suggested that the vampire educate him.

"I wouldn't want to frighten you, Harry Potter."

"Nonsense. I'm not afraid. I've faced down enough in my life. What's the worst that could happen? I face another fear? Just try me," he said with a bit of bravado. At the time, he had meant it to be half flirtatious, though his heart did beat a bit faster at the thought. He pulled his collar down and offered his neck to the vampire, whose eyes glinted.

"Harry, what are you doing?" Ron had mumbled, but he did not try to stop him yet; it was a delicate moment. Every alliance was invaluable; they could not afford to lose their new friendships. The room quieted a little as the vampire leaned in, and then Harry felt the sensation of his sharply pointed fangs scraping sooooo delicately against him. Warm, wet lips caressed his neck, and Harry had shuddered. The _control_ he had…the sense of imminent danger mixed with desire, was almost more than he could stand.

When the vampire sat up again, a grin spreading across his face, spontaneous applause filled the tiny bar room and someone brought Harry another drink. It had been a moment his colleagues would talk about for months afterward, but the alliance of the vampire and his friends was won. It had proven to be a very useful breaking of barriers…but Harry suspected only he and Ron truly understood at what cost. Still, Ron never said another word about it to Harry outside of an occasional, momentary jest.

Harry buried that memory deep down inside after the last child was born; he could not think about it without shame, and not so much because of the discovery that he was bisexual, but because of how pathetically close he had come to compromising the dignity of his marriage in public. Even overseas, Harry was a celebrity, and by proxy, so was Ginny; he'd have to be _so_ careful from then on, so careful…

One thing Harry did know now, however; whatever his fantasies, he had never felt as strongly toward another man as he had for Draco. It was as if there was something about Draco that unlocked that part of him, and when they were together, he was almost someone else entirely. That was the part that scared him the most, and that was the part that made him fly toward Draco like a thirsty hawk to water.


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Twysts

Author's Note: Slowly, but surely…

* * *

"My son wants to stay with his aunt and uncle this year," Malfoy muttered gloomily. "Is there something about me that is just utterly repulsive to everyone with whom I come into contact?"

"Too easy."

"What?"

"Nothing."

They were leaning against Draco's porch, staring at an umbrella portkey as they finished their glasses of scotch. Harry had decided that if Draco didn't seem to think anything unusual had happened between them, he would behave as if he thought the same. So far, it was working, though the nagging question as to why he had not heard from him for so long remained-

"-think I was torturing him or something, the way he talks about how much better he likes it out there."

"Huh?"

"Have you been listening to me?"

"Of course," Harry assured him, admiring the curl of Malfoy's lip, once so detestable, now handsome for its wry irony. "But you know, I think you're taking it rather personally. It's probably the fact that he's made some new friends, you know. And can you blame him? It can't have been easy for him, at Hogwarts."

Draco impatiently tossed the rest of his drink down.

"Yes, I know. Believe me, that is quite clear. But it still hurts."

"I'm sure he will miss you terribly. Mark my words. He won't stay a day after All Hallow's Eve."

"Yeah, I'm sure your right," he answered in a voice that said he believed the exact opposite. "Well, anyway. What are we hanging around here for. Let's get on with it."

"What do you have in mind for today?"

"Don't know, exactly. Just anywhere's better than here right now. But I'm sure you've heard rather enough of my prattling on about my woes, haven't you. Must think I'm pretty pathetic." Draco turned suddenly and faced Harry, looking at him as if seeing him for the first time.

"Don't be a moron." Harry reached for him, hesitated, then followed through, resting a hand on his shoulder and giving him a firm squeeze. It was a gesture of friendship and nothing more. "I don't think you're pathetic. Not in the least. I just wish I could see you happy. I mean, alleviated somehow. It's not right, your wife running off god knows where, and then to have your son wish to live somewhere else…I don't believe it has anything to do with you at all, not for a second. But I can't say if it wasn't me, I wouldn't feel the same way…"

Nothing he said could seem to shake Draco from his brooding, however. After tiring of the same vague stare an hour and a half later, as they sat on the roof of a rustic seaside tavern Muggle-watching in the cover of a conjured mist, Harry decided to try a more direct approach.

"I have a feeling you've got something on your mind."

"Really? What was your first clue?"

"Other than Scorpius."

Draco sighed. Harry felt a slight chill from the damp mist around his skin, and shivered at the thought that Draco's skin must also be cold to the touch, if he were to put an arm around him. He resisted.

"I've got a question for you."

"Sure." Harry turned to give Draco his full attention. He was glad he had finally decided to come out of his brooding and talk.

"Are you gay?"

If Draco had taken a bucket of freezing water and splashed it in Harry's face, he could not have been more taken off his guard.

"This is about that Ruggets game, isn't it." Harry stared into the mist, sensing Draco shifting uncomfortably beside him.

"It's just a question. I've told you nearly everything about me."

"I have an idea. Let's talk about something else."

"Whatever you say."

After a silence, Harry answered: "I don't know." Draco gazed at him. "That's the truth."

"How can you not know?"

"It's hard to explain. You wouldn't understand."

"How can you be sure?"

"Are you saying…you've ever questioned…" Harry found it difficult to look at Draco, especially as warmth rose to his cheeks and ears.

"I'm just saying, don't assume you know everything about what I would and wouldn't understand, that's all." Draco stood up, his movements casual and relaxed. "Anyway. It wouldn't make a difference to me. I'd still consider us friends and all. I just wanted you to know that."

Harry's confused look was answered only by Draco's wry, obligatory smile.

* * *

"Malfoy."

"Mrs. Potter. Weasley. I mean. Here, what should you like to be called?"

Draco flashed Ginny Potter-Weasley his most charming smile and held out his hand, ignoring the cold, thin-lipped stare of Harry's wife.

"Ginny is fine. It's what everyone calls me," Ginny answered, opening the door wider. He entered, still smiling, amused by the thought that she had not finished this particular sentence out loud. Given time, he would win her over. He was not very worried about that. He was worried, however, by the fact that there was no sign of Potter as he looked around…

"Harry's going to be late. Poor planning on his part, as usual. Would you like something to drink?"

"Only if you will be joining me."

Ginny left him standing in the parlor, and he briefly wondered if she had intentionally engineered this tete-a-tete. He wouldn't put it past her; she didn't miss much, from what he remembered. _Sly girl_, he thought, for he always believed it had to be an exceptionally patient temperament that would have waited for Harry's affection as long as she had in their school days. It was no secret, by now, that she had been in love with him from childhood…

…she came back with a bottle of wine, and had conjured a table and glasses before he quite caught himself in his reverie.

"Should we wait for him?"

"What for?"

He smiled again. Still cold, but she would have to work much harder than this to make him uncomfortable enough to leave. He sat down at her bidding, accepted a glass, and took a look around the parlor. The sofa upon which she joined him at a prudent distance was luxuriously comfortable, but not enormous; cozy was the word that came to mind, one of Hestia's favorites. The room was decorated in soft, plain greens that went with the stone columns within and without the house, creating the sense of being in a garden. He wondered if this were Harry's idea, or Ginny's. He saw a few plants-I bet they're gifts from Longbottom-that seemed stuck in odd corners as if in afterthought, and he could only recognize one or two of them. Somehow, he didn't see Harry as having much of a green thumb.

They sipped their wine and sat for a few moments in silence, and Draco decided to make a game of it. _I'm sure I've won at this more often than she has_. He contented himself looking around the room, settling back, and smiling at her now and then when they accidentally made eye-contact. Just when he was about to change his strategy, Ginny gave in.

"My husband has grown very fond of you over the past year."

"I've grown fond of him," Draco answered truthfully, without a moment's hesitation. His frankness seemed to set off an inner struggle in her. She twisted her hands in her lap.

"So it certainly seems, and I hope you'll excuse me if I express my incredulity."

"Good word. Not at all. I would expect you to. In fact, it's nothing short of a miracle."

"Yes. But what I find even more miraculous, is the fact that your-_fondness­-_for each other is apparently so noticeable that people feel compelled to talk about it in the street, and _yet_, my own husband has said little that amounts to the same implications as the most unbelievable gossip-" She got up as if she could hardly stand the sound of her own words and paced irritably.

"Are you saying," he asked after a moment of this, "that you believe there is something unusual about two men sharing a close friendship?"

"Friendship?! Friendship?" she spat, her eyes flashing at him. He openly admired her anger; no wonder Harry feared her. "Is that what they call it these days? Back when I was in school, we called it _snogging._" The word hung awkwardly in the air like a curse. He noticed for the first time that the house seemed vacant of children at the moment.

"What can I say. Friends become close."

"You are unbelievable!" She stormed to the opposite end of the room and glared out of the window. Though he never dropped his calm façade for a moment, Draco pondered fast. He had hardly expected to be faced with this kind of accusation so quickly. _Come to think of it, though, what _did _you expect out of tonight?_

"You know, I say this…very carefully, but I mean it in all seriousness, so please, hear me out for a moment when I say, I think this is all based on a fundamental misunderstanding."

"Really?" Now Ginny gave him a deathly glare, almost predatory, and a distant memory of a terrible bat bogey hex fluttered in the back of his brain. She came forward and stood directly in front of him, looking down. He could not help being impressed-_But let the girl have her vantage point_."Oh, I've simply got to hear this, Malfoy. Please. I'm all ears. Tell me how it is that my husband, snogging you, _another_ married man, in public, is based on a misunderstanding. And then perhaps I can explain it to him too, since he also seemed to be under the impression that he has done as much."

Draco paled a little at this, but plowed ahead. So Harry had confessed. That might actually make things easier. He sighed. It was time to try some more honesty; at least, that is, that inexplicable mannerism of vulnerability that people always seemed to take as the truth.

"I can understand you not wanting to believe me, especially based on past history, which, honestly, I'd prefer not to dredge up. Let's just say I'm perfectly aware of the fact that I've been considered loathsome by some."

Ginny snorted.

"That being said, what I mean to say is…look, the reason I'm here is…is because…because of the way Harry talks about you."

She folded her arms, and her face turned a little pink. He had the feeling, however, that it was from increased wrath, and not pleasure.

"If you are about to try to convince me of how much my husband loves me-" he could see from her trembling lip that he was right about the wrath-

"I would not want to insult you. Of course he loves you. He's also an idiot."

This word seemed to take her by surprise, and she let out a burst of air that, Draco was certain, was as close to laughter as he could expect under the circumstances.

"Look, this is difficult for me, Ginny-god, it seems so wrong to call you that," he opened his hands in supplication, looking about for the right words. "Can I just…will you just have a seat for a moment? I want to show you something."

It took a second of maintaining his display of humility, but then she sat next to him. He knew he'd won the moment he took out his wallet.


	9. Chapter 9

Harry remembered the first time they touched skin.

They were standing in Draco's luxurious parlor, staring at each other with parted lips, Harry windblown and chilled through from having Apparated through the chilly winter witching hour, summoned by a frantic, hastily-scrawled note that had said only:

_I want you._

Harry had smiled, seeming to reassure Draco but trembling all the while himself with trepidation. _Don't worry,_ he'd whispered, as he slid a finger underneath Draco's t-shirt and pulled it off over his head in one swift motion. He remembered how Draco's blond hair feathered out in a staticky fan before settling back around his face, his naked chest rising and falling with each breath. He remembered gazing down, down along the contours of his body, deferentially, admiring the smooth, youthful shape and clearness of skin, the soft, wispy blond hairs that lay in a line down from his navel under his jeans. He had touched it, traced it up, paused at the catching sound of Draco's breath, placed his hand behind his back, pulled himself close.

_Are you sure…_

_Yes…ahhh, yes…_

Harry had kissed him deeply, holding nothing back this time, kissing him as he had once kissed Ginny. Draco had melted against him, stiffened, released, stiffened again, shuddered. As they tumbled onto his couch, time had seemed to disappear. Harry's clothes had also come off, dropping in rumpled piles in various places on the floor.

_Draco…._

His tongue had traveled almost everywhere along Draco's body, and come dangerously close to coaxing its prey out of Draco's cotton boxers, when a shaking hand on the crown of his head gently stopped him.

That was as far as they'd gone before his wife had found out about the public courtship.

Shortly after he'd "come out" to Draco, Harry had come up with a brilliant idea. He waited until Draco was in another of his self-pitying moods, and asked him out on a date. Draco responded much the way he'd expected: by making light of it and pretending it was a game.

Everything had been perfect, from dinner to the theatre show to the sunset-gazing…all the way up until they returned to Draco's courtyard, both avoiding each other's eyes and thinking the same thing.

"_Well, there's just one more thing left to do. If you want a real date, that is," he said._

_Draco smirked._

_Was that a yes or a no? Harry wondered. He decided it would be best to play it safe._

"_Did you enjoy it…?"_

"_Yeah. Thanks. Thanks for cheering me up, Harry."_

"_You're welcome. I guess I'd better get going."_

_He stood there, not leaving. Then he put an arm around Draco's neck and kissed him quietly, as naturally as if it were his wife. When he released Draco, he knew it had been the right move. _

After that, he often mused, it seemed that Draco had made up his mind to accept this new, uniquely intimate form of friendship. He "tolerated" Harry's goodbye kisses, his embraces, his flirtation. Once in a while he seemed to return them, too, although never without an embarrassed laugh, as if to say, "You're such a riot, Harry." It had gotten to be such a standard action for Harry that sometimes he felt Draco stiffen, and his own heart would pound with fear as his mind screamed _That's enough!_ But if he had ever gone too far-certainly he _must_ have-Draco never reprimanded him. He supposed this must have been how he could have been foolish enough to allow himself being seen kissing Draco in public.

Harry sat gloomily at his desk, staring at the same piece of parchment he'd been holding in his hands for about a half an hour. He kept glancing at the clock; if Draco were on time, he would be at the Weasley-Potter's any minute! But as much as he was dying to fly away from his work, he also dreaded their dinner. _It'll all be over soon,_ he told himself, and so he could not help savoring the warmest memories of their affair while he could. Soon he'd have to wipe his hands clean of this whole business, but in the _mean_time…

There had been that one time, against the wall in Diagon Alley, when he had playfully swooped upon Draco during what appeared to be a lull in passersby…Grinning like a wolf, he'd pressed himself passionately against Draco and covered him with kisses, hoping to thrill him…and he knew he had when Draco whispered, terrified, for him to stop before someone saw them…

Harry sighed.

He was getting nowhere with his report. The last paragraph could wait until morning; he was always early, anyway. Glancing at the clock again, he realized there was nothing for it now but to head home. Hedwig chirped beside him; he had taken to bringing her to work for company on his late nights.

"Come on, girl. Let's go have some drama for a change, shall we?"

Of course, her only reply to him was her usual disapproving stare.


	10. Chapter 10

**Title: Twysts**

**Author's Notes: **Just in case you're wondering why this particular story has been taking so long, I think this chapter will explain that. I've been trying to figure out how I'd get to this point, but wala, I have arrived! Now that I'm there it doesn't feel so bad after all, so those of you who were disappointed this story was going to have more than just Draco/Harry, all I can say is, just give it a try. ;) I promise it will be worth it. Enjoy!

* * *

Draco marveled, holding his breath ever so slightly as Potter's wife nestled into him. They had been pouring over the pictures that spilled out of his wallet for hours-it was a special, handcrafted enchanted wallet made of dragonskin, with super volume capacity-and somehow, the tone of their conversation had grown warm and friendly. Ginny seemed enchanted by stories of Draco's fatherhood experiences, and she had also been fascinated with Hestia.

Of course, he'd figured out early on that she felt sorry for him; it was a good advantage and he would have been stupid not to recognize it. In fact, he'd been counting on it. However, the _extent_ of the intimacy was unnerving. _First Potter, now his _wife_? What is _wrong_ with the world today?_ But he "mmmhmmmed" and "uh-huhhed" all of her chatter with outward complacency nonetheless. Any moment now, Potter should be there…_and honestly, I'm more nervous about seeing him again than dealing with her_, he admitted.

"Did you hear me?" Ginny was looking up at him, her dark eyes fathomless and intriguing.

"I'm sorry. My mind was…"

"A million miles away, I can see that. You were thinking about your wife?"

Draco paused, jolted. Why did she sound almost hopeful? He cradled her into the crook of his arm and shook his head reluctantly. He hadn't really been thinking only of his wife, but it was true enough and was what she wanted to hear after all. _She's thinking of making me her project_, he thought gloomily. But then, hadn't his plan succeeded better than he'd hoped?

"I say, Gin, where's Harry? He should've been here by now, shouldn't he?"

"He had to work a little late tonight. He said he'd be home shortly. I didn't call because he always gets so annoyed when I nag at him."

"Ah."

"I'm sorry about that. By the way, you must be hungry then?" Ginny turned to look at him, but he kept his arm about her.

"No, no…I'm all right. I feel bad he's got to work late, though. Listen…I'm glad we've been able to talk. I mean…I really appreciate you being so interested in me. And in our friendship. Harry's and mine, that is."

_She didn't like _that_, then_, he noted as her face flushed a bit and she looked off into nowhere. His mother often wore a similar look when she wanted to answer his father with silence.

"I suppose I had to find out about it sooner or later. I don't know what's going on in that head of his. I'm not saying I'm all right with it, you know."

"No, no, of course not! I understand that."



"I might have been, if it hadn't gotten so…so…"

"Out of hand?"

"Exactly." She sulked against him, and he felt a warmth spread through his body at her candid admission. _Maybe it's this abysmal wine she's drugged me with…the harpy! Where the bloody hell is Potter?!_

"Look, Ginny, I don't know how to tell you this, and perhaps it's against my better judgment, but I swear to you, I never, ever in a _million_ years dreamed things would happen between Potter and I like they did. I never even had the _thought_ in my head. It's not like I'd intended it, you see."

"What are you trying to say, Malfoy? That my husband is responsible for this?"

"Well-" he was caught now- "In a word, yes. He's the one who came onto me. Mind you, I did reciprocate…oh, I'm doing this sooo badly. I should go." He tried to extricate himself from Ginny and stand, but his head was swimming. Her expression was one of utter alarm.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah…I think it's that wine you gave me…that and nerves," he laughed, but his legs really did feel a little wobbly.

"You're fine. Just take it easy. There's no hurry."

"I'm sorry, Ginny."

She sighed. Then she shifted forward, turning to face him with a rather odd expression.

"All right, Draco. The truth is, I have a confession to make."

"What confession?"

"I'm a little jealous, you know."

He must have looked as shocked as he felt, because she actually laughed. "Don't look so surprised. You and my husband. You're having all this _fun_…oh, you'll probably think I'm strange. Yes, I'm hurt, but it's not all for the reasons you think. It's just, I've spent all this time trying to be the perfect wife, and the perfect mother, and Harry…well…see, I've never really loved anyone other than Harry, and I still don't, but…oh, it's so hard to explain."

"No…no, I think I understand, actually." Draco could hardly believe what he was hearing; suddenly, he felt as if a big weight of guilt and misery had been lifted off of him. "I should tell you more about my marriage, Ginny. If my wife were here, do you know what she'd say? She'd encourage you and Harry to _agree_ to have some experiences-"



Draco was stopped mid-speech by the wet, soft lips of Potter's wife as she leaned in and kissed him with a tender longing that literally took his breath away. When she pulled back, her expression was expectant.

In the seconds that passed as they stared at one another, verbose, heated thoughts rushed through Draco's head like a freight train-how to break the awkwardness by telling her that she'd done the last thing he'd ever expected, how to get back to explaining Hestia's philosophies on love, how to avoid getting caught by Harry, who would undoubtedly be murderously angry, how to explain to himself how being wanted by this woman could feel so, _so_ good when he was still trying to figure out why the same went for being wanted by her husband-

-and, having given up on expressing all of those, Draco did what he found came to him best, and showered Ginny with love. He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her in tight, and kissed her the way he knew she wanted to be kissed, the way he would have wanted to kiss Hestia on their wedding night, if things had gone differently. Ginny moaned softly into his mouth and let him land them softly on the couch. For hours after that-or so it seemed-Draco was aware of nothing but the sensation of her tingling fingertips on his back and neck and her burning mouth against his as he abandoned himself to pleasing her.


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

**Title: Twysts**

**Disclaimer:** Disclaimers are for dorks.

**Author's Note:** Remember _this_ story? Yeah, I know it's been a while. What else is new?! I'm GOING to finish, though, I promise! This was a hard one to write...but I think it's worth it. Incidentally, this latest chapter...yeah, I know it looks like things are getting bad. Will everyone destroy each other in their persistence to submit to their baser human instincts?! :P Relax. Don't worry; no Potter characters will be harmed in the competing of this story. Keep in mind, though...it _is_ supposed to be twisted. Not for the faint of heart or morally superior. Enjoy! Oh...and thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Harry finally rubbed his eyes and decided that the unpleasant business piled upon his desk could wait until tomorrow morning. He really could not keep Ginny waiting any longer; by now, Draco would be at the door if he had not already arrived.

"I'm not much of a husband, am I," he muttered as he gathered his robe, locomoted his briefcase and turned out the lights. As his hand touched the door to his office, he froze, the hair on his neck standing straight on edge. He could have sworn he'd heard something behind him-something that sounded like a human gasp. Pausing for a moment to listen to the silence, his mind reeled. Was this some new attack? He had no doubt that the sound had been real-he had been living among wizards for too long to question his senses-it was simply a question of the origin. Slowly, silently, he reached for his wand.

He heard a loud, polite cough behind him too his left. This time, it sounded deliberate. Exhaling, he turned around, flicking out his wand and holding it before him. He felt ridiculous when he found no one in the room but himself.

"Are you wearing an invisibility cloak?! Speak!" he shouted.

"I'm sorry, Harry, for frightening you! Please put down your wand," a familiar female voice spoke from no more than five feet from him, and a chill ran down Harry's spine.

"Tonks?!" His question was barely above a whisper.

"Turn me around, hon!"

The voice was coming from the small portrait standing upon his desk. Of _course_. _Idiot_.

He went back to his desk and turned it around as requested, holding his breath as he looked into Tonks' eyes staring back at him from her picture. Tonks, who had been dead for nineteen years.

"Tonks," he whispered again, his eyes growing wet, "I've missed you!"

"I know, darling. I'm so sorry for the sudden shock. I didn't mean to catch you this way."

"But have you been here all along?" His mind still reeling, he recalled how the portraits of former Hogwarts headmasters had frequently provided living advice to Dumbledore long after their occupants had been deceased. Still, he had not remembered ever putting such magic into his own portraits…he'd had an aversion to speaking with the dead spawned all the more by his own longing to be reunited with those he'd lost.

"Oh, I've been in and out," She answered evasively, looking guilty. There was not a trace of sadness in her eyes, or anything otherworldly at all; she looked, in fact, exactly as Harry remembered her: lighthearted, strong, and just the slightest bit mischevious.

"Who…who did this to you? When-"

"It was Hermione and Ron, Harry. They thought you might need a sounding board now and then."

"Well, they didn't tell _me_," Harry grumbled, now angry as well as overcome with fondness for his friends, including Tonks. "So you've been here all this time. Yet this is the first you've spoken to me, or given any indication. Something must have happened. What do I need to know?"

"Relax, Harry! Please don't sound so put out and formal. There's no need to be afraid. There's little I can say about how this works, but I just want you to know, Remus and I-all of us, in fact, are quite well. We've been watching, and we always will be."

Harry's skin crawled. All of _us_?! There were so many questions he wanted to ask, so many different directions in which he could take this conversation, for hours and hours and hours…but he shook his head violently, trying desperately to clear it.

"Wait, hold that thought. I'll be coming back to that later; that is, if you aren't planning to disappear anytime soon?"

"No, Harry…I promise, we'll have a good, long catching up. I promise!" Tonks insisted, her guilty half-smile begging for his patience when he scowled.

"All right, then. So the reason you've come? Or coughed, rather?"

"Well, actually, that was something of a mistake-"

"A mistake?"

"An accident…I mean, I didn't mean for you to hear me when I-when I made that noise just then, but when I saw that I'd frightened you, I thought-well, he might as well know."

"Why are you looking so embarrassed, Tonks? Can't you just out with it? I've had a very long evening, you know."

"Yes, yes. I know. It's just….this is most unpleasant…oh, and I'm doing it all _wrong_! I thought perhaps you'd enjoy a visit from an old friend, and instead I'm just making you more upset, even _before_ telling you-"

"I'm not more upset. It's just unsettling, all right? Before telling me _what_?!"

Tonks sighed.

"I wish I didn't have to be the one…but I couldn't think of any other way. It seemed wrong to let you find out without any warning."

"Tonks. I love you, you know that. But what are you TALKING ABOUT?!?!"

Tonks pouted, her lip glittering with the over-the-top make-up she had always worn in life. Her eyes were dark and pitying, her hair still in short spikes coated with a brilliant shade of platinum blue.

"You're situation at home, Harry. You know, the business for tonight? With Draco Malfoy and your _wife?_!"

He was quiet. There was something about the way said it, his lover's name and the word "wife" together, that he'd picked up on. On an antique desk in the living room-a desk that had come from a Hogwarts auction, in fact-was a collection of photos and portraits of family and friends, almost a shrine to his and Ginny's memories. He knew that Tonks had a place of honor there, along with Remus Lupin, her husband, whose arm was draped about her shoulders as they smiled endless smiles, their eyes filled with the secret of their love for one another.

"Tonks, I have to go."

"I understand, Harry. Listen, I'll be here when you get back-I'm always here-"

"Got it," he said curtly as he stalked toward the door again. He didn't mean to be rude, but he was preoccupied-he knew she'd understand…

"Harry?!" Tonks called.

"What?"

"Don't do anything…hasty, when you get home, all right? You know things aren't always what they seem…"

Harry closed the door on her voice, nodding absentmindedly. Then he Apparated.

They were lying on the couch together, his wife laying on Draco's breast, smiling, tracing a line down his skin thoughtfully, chattering in that lazy way she always did when she'd had a couple of glasses of wine. Their murmuring voices floated out to him in the hallway, and he heard his name mentioned once or twice without a hint of shame. Neither of them seemed to have any idea that he was standing there in the darkness, watching them.

When he had stood there for about ten minutes, undetected, he went casually to the bar in their open kitchen, opened a cabinet, and poured himself some wine. He heard a violent shuffling behind him and then silence, as they became aware of his presence.

He turned.

"Harry…!" Draco was even paler than usual, though a dark, patchy blush persisted on his cheeks. Ginny had huddled over in the complete opposite end of the couch, her eyes wide like a rabbit's.

He smiled, lifted his glass to them, and tipped it down.

"Sorry I'm late. I see you've found a way to amuse yourself, however."

In an instant, he was next to Draco before anyone could react-later he would amaze himself thinking about the effortless Apparation-he grabbed his lover by the collar, lifting him off the couch, and threw him with all his might into the library, to the sound of Ginny's terrified screams.


	12. Chapter 12

**Title: Twysts **

**Author's Note:** I've got maybe one, two more chapters at the most to this story in me, and then I think I'll be moving on. But looking back over it, I almost forgot how fun it had been! I think it's one of my favs after all. Hope you enjoy, but just keep in mind the title; it's not called "twysts" for nothing. Oh and, rated "m" for sexual content and language, this chapter especially. :) Thanks in advance for reviews!

* * *

Harry filled all five of Draco's senses; that's what he remembered most. First it was a sweaty, hot hand against his mouth, holding his head so tight he thought Harry was planning on snapping his jaw in two. But Harry stood there, holding Draco against the floor by the mouth, so enraged he was spitting as his words came snarling out.

"Six months! _Six fucking months_! I put EVERYTHING on the line for you! I put my whole fucking marriage, my entire family aside, and I _waited_ for you!"

Draco was not permitted to answer, so he simply lay there, his jaw throbbing under Harry's palm, thoughts racing through his head about whether or not Harry would remember that if he didn't let him breathe he might actually kill him. He blinked rapidly as Harry's hot breath blasted him with pure fury. He remembered also thinking that he had once been foolish enough to want to see this side of Harry; now he had never felt so small in his entire life…

"-kissed me, you led me on, you made me feel _sorry_ for you, and you made me think you _wanted_ me! All that time you had me dangling by your fucking _finger_ just _waiting_ for any _morsel_ of your affection…you _knew_ how I felt about you, you _knew _what I've been living with, all these years, what I've been _craving_…I saved it all for _you!!!_ Then you write to my _wife_ without my permission-"

Horrified, Draco realized Harry was now _sobbing_-but he knew this was only further evidence of just how dangerous he was-

"-You arrange to meet us and tell me you just want to fix my marriage, and all this time, I've been listening to you and telling you everything about me, _everything_-and then I come here and find you FUCKING MY WIFE!!!"

Suddenly, the tirade stopped; Harry became instantly cold. He released Draco's mouth, and Draco parted his lips carefully, sneaking in air. He did not dare break their gaze. Harry was sitting on his waist, straddling him; he sat up and stared down at him the way a serial killer might look at his dead victim. Draco couldn't move.

"You know what?" Harry began again, in a perfectly normal voice. Something was off; Draco sensed things were about to get even worse. "I get it now. I see what's been going on. It was never me you wanted."

"Wha…?" Draco breathed, still sure it was not safe enough to argue just yet.

"You've wanted Ginny all along. All these years. Not even Ginny. It's just you wanted what I have. My life."

At these words, Draco's stomach lurched and he became truly terrified now; in spite of the violence, he suddenly realized he might lose Harry's friendship forever, and he couldn't bear it…

"No…not true, Harry!"

"Oh, yes. Yes, I think it _is_ true. I think this has all been some complicated, twisted plot to make me pay for all those years at school. That's what it is."

"Come off it, Harry. You can't believe that."

"No, no…I do. I think perhaps you don't even know it yet. Maybe you're just so fucking twisted in the head, you don't even realize how far you'd go. Maybe you've been manipulating me all this time, just to make you feel better about your own pathetic life. I see it now!"

Harry sounded almost elated, but his eyes were still cold…and hurt.

He leaned forward, smiling wryly, and stared into Draco's face as if curiously inspecting something disgusting he'd found on the side of the road.

"You've always hated me. That's what this is about. You never wanted to be my friend; you just wanted to prove that you could get the upper hand. You've plotted from the very beginning to ruin my entire marriage. But the most amazing thing about it, is that you actually succeeded!"

"Harry," Draco began, his voice now calm and low, matching Harry's but with a more persistent soothing quality to it. "Listen to yourself. Obviously you feel betrayed. But I promise you, this is no more than a stupid, idiotic, bloody mistake, not part of some paranoid plot-"

"Oh, no no no. If it were anybody else, Draco, I might half believe you. But a Death Eater never changes. Your father was a good illustration of that," he added mercilessly. "But that's not the point. It's no matter. I know who and what I am now. I've known it long before you came along. And guess what?"

"What?" Draco asked, feeling stupid. What else was there to say?

"You're no match for me. You've played with my feelings all along, had me going half crazy following you around thinking you might actually give me what I want. Well you've had me, and you've had my wife. Now it's time for you to give something back."

"What do you mean?" Draco heard his own voice, uncharacteristically high, as all kinds of dark, erotic thoughts flashed through his head. Could he have heard what he thought? And how, exactly, _did_ he feel about it?

Harry smiled; Draco realized he was enjoying the power of losing control. _It's not something he's probably ever done in his life_, he noticed with detached scrutiny. _I guess it's his game tonight, and I'm going to have to play by his rules, like or no_.

"Here, I'll show you."

He unzipped his own crotch, pulled out his cock-Draco could see it was hard and standing straight up at a slight angle; he wondered if this kind of arousal were a common occurrence for Harry. Then hands were grabbing him from the back of his neck; his head was forced forward.

"Go ahead, Draco. Suck me off."

Draco obeyed; he had no idea what he was doing, but he figured it was too late for that. He took the head of Harry's cock in his mouth, noting-and ignoring-the strong smell of sweat from the groin area. As he sucked, he wondered again at the detached, intellectual place his mind had retreated to while his body was being…well, raped. Thoughts like _so_ this_ is what it's like for a woman…or for gay men, for that matter…_ and_…I wonder if I'm enjoying this; seeing Harry this way is so hot, but what does that say about me?_...and…_I wonder if this means I'm gay_…and finally…_who is doing this, anyway? Me, or him?_ Streamed through his consciousness.

It wasn't until after the events of that night that he would remember, with a flush, how Harry had moaned and sighed, how he had commanded Draco with a tone that had long gone from angry and violent to seductive and sensual.

Then Harry had held them together, kissing him, pushing their naked bodies together so that they stroked each other's erections-that's right! _He'd_ had one, too, now that he thought about it-and then there could be no question as to what had happened afterward, for he had quite loudly called Harry's name as he was being fucked, losing himself to the unexpected, body-wracking orgasm that had followed and left him shuddering on the floor.

So there it was. Harry had had him.

When it was over the first time, Harry sat up, half-dressed, against the coffee table in the library, one knee pulled up, his head back and his eyes half-closed. He looked relaxed and pleased with himself, and Draco felt that this was still the new Harry, the one that had enjoyed taking Draco "against his will," the sexual beast that had been clawing at his insides waiting to get out all these years. God_ he would have been so hot back in school, if he'd been like that._ Then again, Draco figured Harry would have been in Slytherin from the beginning if he hadn't been so repressed.

Harry disappeared for about an hour after that, and Draco lay alone on the floor, exhausted by sex, wine and drama. He must have fallen asleep. Somehow, he figured everything would be okay, even after all that had happened, and anyway, Harry had gotten what he'd wanted. It was no longer his problem if Harry now wanted to go patch things up with his wife. If they'd just let him sleep there for a bit, he'd be just fine…sure enough, he eventually drifted off to a warm, deep sleep there on the Weasley-Potter's library floor, lulled by the sound of low, muffled voices, working things out in the other room.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: Dear readers...if any of you are still around, your patience is about to be rewarded.**

**For the newbies...enjoy! **

**Chapter 13**

They had gone out for brunch.

What else do you do after sex? Harry, spent and feeling exposed, had been only too happy to go along with whatever Ginny suggested. Nevermind the fact that he could hardly look into her eyes directly, or Draco's either…they, however, seemed to be just fine!

They chatted, blushed, snickered and smiled, looking for all the world like schoolkids with a secret prank. He wished he could enjoy the pleasure they now shared, but he was too busy worrying about the looks they were getting. Why hadn't they gone to someplace farther away from home? Harry inwardly groaned.

They said shy goodbyes, and Harry and Ginny, his arm tenderly about her waist, went their separate way from Draco.

Draco was whistling as he walked down the boulevard.

_My dearest Draco!_

_I wish you could have been here to see my mouth drop and hit the floor when I read your letter. I tell you, if I had been reading the smuttiest romance novel by Madame de Vivre L'Anguie, I could not have blushed more furiously. I am certain everyone's eyes were on me as I left the trolley! And the _scandal! _Oh, the delicious _subversion_ of it! My goodness! So many questions. But first, most importantly: are you happy? Do you feel loved _now_, my dearest husband? Do see what I've been trying to tell you all these years, that you are so very desireable, so very loveable, simply because you have opened up your heart? Dare to think it, Draco! Now, of course, if I know anything about you, I know you will not be satisfied by these goings on alone, for as you've told me so often, at the end of the day it is you who comes home to an empty house. I know…I know, my darling. _

_I have half a mind to come home…_

_Speechlessly yours,_

_Hestia_

Draco was lying on his bed staring at the ceiling, his fingers interlocked with the thumbs touching as his hands rested on his stomach. His meditative position. He had taken to calling these bouts of inactivity his "meditation" of late…in actuality, he just gave himself permission to think about whatever popped into his head.

So quiet.

No one to bother him.

_He hasn't touched me since that night_.

Hestia, perhaps coming for a visit. Scorpius coming home.

_My life is my own_.

Was it true, as she so often said, that love came in many different forms? Could it truly pass through, over and around barriers, like a sparkling, rushing river, and go wherever it willed? Could it reach dry places like he, and water the roots that thirsted there?

And yet, Harry and Ginny had each other even more now, and he had no one. So it seemed.

Once, he had run into Ginny at a bookstore. She'd blushed and then smiled, a small, wicked, secretive smile, her brown eyes dark and seeming larger. Lust. He'd been completely polite, maintained an appropriate distance of about four feet, let her be the one to approach him. How was she doing? Did she like to come to this bookstore often? Oh, did she really like that author? He'd heard a lot about him. Her nipples seemed to swell through her blouse. He knew that if she saw that he'd noticed, she did not care.

Not even a kiss on the cheek, however…even though he suspected she'd have welcomed it. Harry was not there. It would not be right.

She'd go home to him, he'd thought bitterly, and find her…release, in the arms of her loving spouse. _Glad I could help_.

He knew Harry still craved him, probably. It had been all Harry's doing, really…so Draco tried rationally to remind himself, and yet all the shame and the pain of it seemed to weigh so easily upon him. Yes, Harry would still want him, but Harry was not alone. Harry did not _love_ him!

Tears sprang to his eyes, and he let them flow out of the corners. Harry did not _love_ him. That was what it was. Wanted, yes. But loved, no.

_Why not_?

Hestia's voice in his head.

_Because he has married the one he loves already,_ Draco reasoned miserably, in a mood for martyrdom. _He cannot love more than one…_

_Why not?_

Just the sort of question she would ask.

"Who would ask?" Hestia's voice.

Draco lifted himself and glanced across the bedroom to see her peering at him, bright, wide eyes-so full of life, and so full of care and concern at the same time-from the midst of the fireplace.

"Was I talking aloud?"

"Do you usually?" She grinned.

_Speak of the devil_.

He grinned back.

"You must have heard my thoughts."

"Not at all, although I have a pretty good guess what they were about," Hestia smiled carefully, cupping the warm mug of hot cider he'd brought her. They sat in two cozy chairs by the fire, Hestia with a blanket over her lap, one leg stretched out while her socked foot waved back and forth. Draco had wrapped himself in a quilt and sat staring blankly at the fire, glancing at her periodically with a sad smile. He looked small and helpless on the one hand, but on the other, Hestia noted, peaceful the way only solitude could have made him. He played with her foot. He _was_ glad to see her, even if not in much of a talking mood.

"Potter."

He nodded, yielding nothing further. There was no need.

"And now, the missus?"

Draco wrinkled his eyebrows, thinking, deciding…then, yes; he nodded again.

"It's not the same, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel something for her, too. Or maybe it's just that she liked me, showed me some affection. I don't really know. Pretty pathetic, isn't it? I had no idea I was so easy with my devotion."

Hestia seemed to withdraw into herself, considering carefully. Her eyes, bright like sapphire seeing stones, pierced into the fire, divining, perhaps. He expected her to come out of her trance and say something upbeat and determined about how he should be celebrating what he'd achieved, and how he shouldn't measure love by how many people shared his living space, or something like that. Instead, when she spoke, she said the last thing he'd expected to hear.

"I'd like to meet her. This Ginny Weasley-Potter. Oh and I suppose while I'm at it, I'd enjoy meeting your Harry, too. What do you say?"

"I…don't know how it could be arranged," he answered, more surprised than anything.

"Have you written to them since your last meeting? Have you tried?"

"Not really," he admitted sullenly. Well, he _hadn't_. "So it comes down to that?"

"Why not? Silly! Of _course._ Well come on then!" Her eyes and her mischevious smile now urged him out of his chair, she sitting comfortably and as lazily as ever. "If it's worked every time till now, I see no reason why it shouldn't again."

"What if I just make it worse?" He confessed his fears in a dull tone.

"Draco, clearly these two have no idea _what_ to do with themselves. Haven't you had to show them in the past? Initiate every awkward step along the way? Does it not occur to you that you will have to _continue_ training them, if you want them to behave at _all_?"

He gaped. Hestia beamed.

"What is it?"

"A letter." Ginny was curled up absentmindedly on the couch, the letter dangling from her fingers as she stared into space.

Harry, after putting up his coat, crept predatorily up to the couch. He managed not to trip, and slid next to her.

She did not notice. He reached toward the letter, leaning over her until she finally turned and pretended to lean away.

"An _invitation_," she said meaningfully, keeping it away from him.

"From _whooooom?_ For _whaaaat_?" Still playful. Was it too good to be true?

"Guess."

"Not _Dra_co," he guessed, stopping to carefully gauge her expression.

The corner of her lip turned up, as if she could not help but smile.

"See for yourself," she tapped it on his knee, then watched him read it. He bent over it almost greedily. When he finished, he looked up, and her expression was nothing but frankness. "What should we do?"

He was quiet for a long time. What did Ginny want? He wondered. And he thought about what he wanted. Part of his mind told him none of it was possible, but he had begun to disbelieve that over the last few months, and that part of him didn't speak that loudly anymore. Finally he looked at her and took her hand, his face as hopelessly open as hers.

"Come on, Mrs. Weasley-Potter. Our lover is calling us."

Nothing but a flick of her eyebrows; feigned disinterest.

She did not argue. Instead, she got up, went upstairs, and changed her clothes.


	14. Chapter 14

**Title: Trysts and Twysts **

**Author's Note:** Just when I think it's about over, there are a few more "twysts" to come. Here's yet another. Enjoying? ;) As before, rated M for adult sexual content and some language. Oh, also, I've updated the title of the story, as those of you following can see.

* * *

For reasons that were mysterious to Draco, Hestia seemed to have decided to stick around indefinitely after their dinner with Ginny and Harry, which had gone surprisingly well. A strange, pleasant, devil-may-care stalemate replaced the tension that had been building up to their meeting, the four of them.

Draco was reflecting on this several days after the dinner, as he stood in the marble shower of the enormous bathroom on the third floor, closing his eyes blissfully under the hurricane that beat at him with a steady downpour, just the perfect temperature to give his skin a nice massage. The sound of the water, like rain, soothed him.

_We all know why we're here_, Hestia had begun their conversation, after a polite dinner they'd shared in which Draco and his wife had spared no expense. They'd sat in the parlor, sipping cocktails and listening to soft violin music played by house elf. From then on, all Draco remembered was gritting his teeth nervously as Hestia did the majority of the talking, and trying not to look at anyone in the eye as she went on about "modern marriage" and other such scandalous topics. And Ginny Weasley had indeed, he thought, looked scandalized-although perhaps he was imagining it due to his own horror-and Harry too, most likely on her behalf, as he constantly looked back and forth between Ginny and Hestia, as if to gauge his wife's reactions. It had been enough to make Draco dizzy.

And then…

Draco turned in the shower, spoke a command, and allowed his hair to be washed by streams of frothy, mint-scented shampoo that now poured upon him and, as if by invisible hands, worked itself into his temples.

And then, a shift had taken place. Draco had thought it was going to end badly, and right about the time his wife took their glasses and, joined by Ginny, left to return them to the kitchen-she preferred doing these things herself rather than making as liberal use of the house elves as did Draco. Left alone with Harry, who sat quietly opposite him, he imagined horrible scenarios of a row breaking out between the women, and Ginny storming in to drag Harry off, demanding they never have anything to do with the depraved couple again. Or perhaps a frosty, awkward moment in which the two women agreed, without directly saying so, to loathe each other, and all attempts at diplomacy were forever lost.

Instead, Draco mused, as the rinsing tempest died down and he stepped out to dry himself, when the wives had returned about twenty minutes later, just in time to interrupt the small talk that had begun warming up to real conversation between he and Harry, they wore strange, conspiratorial smiles and were walking practically arm-in-arm. Ginny in particular, he'd thought, now that he looked back at it, had looked rather triumphant. Although he'd dreamed of it, the fact that they all seemed to have parted as friends-although Harry had looked just as confused as Draco as they took their leave-seemed just _too_ good to be true. Yet, it was perfectly clear that Ginny and Hestia had decided, at least for now, that they liked each other.

It wasn't over. There was something more-Draco was waiting for the other shoe to drop. He knew it would. The question was just when, and when it happened, what exactly would the fallout be? And where, more importantly, would it leave him?

Several beautiful, thick towels appeared in midair directly where he stood, and he took them and dried off, savoring their soft, fluffy caress as they whirled around him to meld into an elegant robe. He spoke another command, thinking better of it, and the robe changed from cotton to silk, falling sleek around his body. He glanced in the mirrored doorway, which showed him from top to bottom, and a sensual woman's voice made various suggestive sounds and comments meant to flatter and boost his ego. He assumed he was looking decent enough.

As he entered the bedroom, he admired Hestia, stretched out topless in her underwear on the bedspread and apparently reading some novel she'd brought with her. She looked back over her shoulder to see him, and smiled.

"Did you know that the _Goblin Wars_ trilogy is breaking out into the Muggle market?"

Draco shook his head, noticing her eyes surreptitiously giving him the once-over. He felt his cheeks warm with pleasure, and another part of him warm with pleasure, too.

"I had no idea."

"It's true. I thought it was just a rumor, but, they're announcing it right here in the cover."

"Fascinating," he said in a voice that suggested his mind was somewhere else completely.

"I think so." Hestia dog-eared the page and closed the book, picking up her wand from underneath her and levitating the novel to the bureau. She turned more fully around, rested her elbow on her hip, and gave him a more deliberate appraisal.

"Well, _you_ look delicious," she said matter-of-factly, and Draco felt himself harden with a sudden animal-desire. He approached the foot of the bed.

"I was never sure I was your type."

"Very few aren't my type."

"That supposed to be flattering?"

Hestia shrugged, rising to her knees and taking the edges of his robe in her hands playfully.

"It's just truth. And it just so happens to be true that you look absolutely hot, right at this moment."

Draco chuckled.

"How long has it been for you, exactly?"

"Long enough, but that has nothing to do with it."

"Mmmhmm."

By nonverbal command, the light in the bedroom began to dim.

Draco, enjoying Hestia's rare affection, leaned in and placed his forehead against hers, gazing fondly into her eyes, as she rubbed his chest through his robe.

"You seem awfully…friendly, tonight," he said softly, afraid of getting his hopes up for nothing. "You wouldn't be feeling like a-"

"A roll in the hay? For old time's sake?"

"Something like that. I was thinking soft cushions, blankets and bedposts, of course. Seeing as we're in a bedroom."

"And I," Hestia murmured, kissing him gently with a predatory grin, "was thinking these…"

Seemingly out of thin air, she had produced a pair of silver and black, intricately embroidered, obviously stunning quality manacles.

Draco laughed, taking them in his hands as she held them. He was feeling inexplicably more aroused by the moment, although such intimacy was rare between them and their past lovemaking had tended to be more _ than passion. She held onto the manacles, pretending to fight him for them.

"And who, pray tell," he asked, pulling her into his chest with the manacles, "did you envision wearing these tonight?"

"Good question. I was thinking it might be fun to see what you'd do with them, if you were to have them on me."

"_Re_ally? Well, we'll just have to see."

Grabbing her wrist with one hand, and using his other arm to grasp her waist, he kissed her hard, leaning down on her until they fell onto the bed together. She gasped, laughed, and moaned as he clasped the manacles around both her wrists and held her arms over her head.

"I love you!" He whispered furiously, kissing her now more deeply than he ever had. She returned his kiss, pressing up into him as if wishing to become part of him.

"I love you too," she hissed when he took her, her legs wrapped around him as he drove into her madly, the bed bouncing beneath them, enjoying the sound of the bedposts against the wall.

They held nothing back, and made love all night that night, the sound of Hestia's delighted cries ringing in Draco's ears.


	15. Chapter 15

**Story title: Trysts and Twysts**

**Author's note: **Are you still here?

**Warnings: **Don't worry; even _I_ think it's ridiculous. :P

**Rating: M**

* * *

Sunlight streamed through the curtains, falling on Draco's eyelids. He came slowly to consciousness, feeling Hestia's breathing beneath him as he rested his head on her stomach. Her hand still lay on his head, where she had been affectionately stroking his hair. Opening his eyes, he enjoyed the feeling of his body having completely relaxed from some of the best sleep he'd had in a long time. Remembering the playful, animal-like behavior of the night before, he blushed a little and smiled, biting his lip.

In the daylight, he felt more contemplative, and his passion for Hestia's attention, gone with the appeasement of his sexual desire, had been replaced by a familial closeness. Hestia had always been his friend, and she often made him feel, though he felt rather ashamed to admit it, _safe_. When she was there, he was usually unsatisfied, but at least he was loved. When she was gone, he just felt empty and alone. Last night, he mused, had been pretty incredible. But now that the sun had come up, his thoughts turned over to Harry, and in his heart was a sharp, deep sense of longing.

Hestia eventually stretched and awoke, and she stroked his hair again, in an almost motherly gesture. Draco swallowed and refused to let the tears spring to his eyes. How sad it was, how pathetic, he had thought, that this was as far as their love could go. But he would be happy right now, he decided, curling into her and wrapping a strong arm around her waist. He'd take a page from the book of Hestia, as he had done before, and remember that love in all its forms was still love.

"Morning," she murmured, sounding similarly comfortable and relaxed.

"Morning, my love." He lifted his head and, gazing into her sleepy eyes, smiled. "Sleep well?"

"Amazingly. Last night was-" she broke off and laughed, and he did as well.

"Pretty crazy," he finished.

"Yes. Exactly." She kissed him tenderly a few times. "It was fun." And then: "Thank you."

"My pleasure." Draco rolled out of bed and stretched, rubbing his eyes and going to the window. He felt suddenly that he did not need to be physically near her anymore. "Breakfast?"

"I'll make it," Hestia insisted, as he heard her moving about and throwing on her robe.

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

Draco suddenly had the oddest notion; what if Hestia were as anxious to put space between them now, as he? Strange.

Outside, a line of clouds began to cover the sun, leaving the scene of his manicured lawns a little bleak, yet still inviting. He thought back to the game of Ruggets he'd played with Harry. Things had gotten so much more complicated since then. In a way, he wished he could go back to that moment, when Harry had cradled him, had blocked out the sun crouching over him, and had looked, for a moment, as if he wanted to kiss him. If he could have gone back to it, Draco mused, he would have taken the initiative himself. He would kiss Harry as deeply as was possible, hold him, and never let him go.

"What will you do today?" Hestia said, startling him, for he'd thought she'd already left the room. He realized then that she had been watching him, and wondered for how long. Politely, he turned around and gave her a weak smile.

"Not sure yet." _I need to see him. I need him, Hestia_. "Still thinking about it. You?"

She smiled too, although her eyes seemed to hide something, in addition to concern.

"Thought I might get about, see some old friends. You look like you could use some fresh air yourself, though," she pointed out.

"Yeah, I could," he admitted. "How long do you think you'll stay?"

"A few days, perhaps. If it's all right with you. Maybe longer. I thought-" and she paused, and Draco thought he saw something for sure this time, something guilty, distracted, in her expression, as she shifted her eyes away and back to him quickly, covering for something she did not want to tell him about. _That_ was interesting…she'd never needed to hide anything from him before, as far as he knew. He filed it away and pretended not to notice.

"What?"

"I thought, maybe, I might stick around until Scorpius comes back home. Welcome him and spend some time with him. Do you reckon-?"

Now Draco understood where _some_ of the guilt, at least, was coming from, and he smiled warmly, but still did not go over to her.

"Of course I don't mind. It would be good for Scorpius to see you. I've told you again and again I would be happy to see you spend more time with him here, the two of his parents together, you know."

"I know. I'm sorry about that, Draco. I'm…I'm not a good mother, am I."

"You're a fine mum. Scorpius adores you and always asks about you. He loves to visit you. He misses you when you're away. You are a good mother in all the ways he needs you to be. You're just not a good wife."

They smiled at each other, her apologetic and him forgiving, and he knew she understood his words were not meant to be an insult. It was, after all, true.

At the Weasley-Potter home, Harry had been having some similar, self-pitying thoughts. Things _seemed_ to have returned to normal, somewhat, in their home, if normal meant he and Ginny were friendly and affectionate, but not exactly either honest or passionate. Not wanting to upset her any further, Harry had thrown himself full force into his husband roles; being a father, of course, was never hard, as he loved spending time with the children. In fact, he noticed, it was probably the time he and Ginny and the whole family were happiest together.

He resolved to ignore what was missing.

_I'm too old for that kind of nonsense_, he told himself. Besides, he mused while enchanting the dishes to be washed one evening, he still wasn't so certain he was in the clear with Ginny. He didn't know how he knew it, but somehow, whenever she gave him her recent, glassy smile that was just a little too wide to be natural, he _knew_ she was hiding something from him. Assuming it meant he was still under close watch, he didn't dare stir the waters.

Then, one day, just before the children were to go back to school, Ginny surprised him by announcing that she would be going on holiday, without him, for two weeks.

"Wha-?" He looked up from his tea, folding _The Daily Prophet _so that he could give her his full attention. She had sat down at the kitchen breakfast bar and, leaning on one elbow, smiled wistfully at him.

"I want to go away for a few weeks."

He looked at her warily.

"What did I do?"

"Nothing," she chuckled. "I know you think something's wrong, Harry, but it's not. It's just something I've been wanting to do for awhile."

"Get away. Without me." _Get away _from_ me?_ He wondered, and she got the message.

"Look, just because I want to spend some time to myself, doesn't mean you should automatically feel threatened. Hestia does it all the time."

"Hestia and Draco have a marriage of convenience. Is that what you're telling me you want?" he asked seriously, jarred by Draco and his wife having to be brought up.

Ginny rolled her eyes.

"It's nothing to do with our marriage, Harry. It's for me. It's something I don't think I do enough of. Can you understand?"

"I think so…yeah…sure…" he tried to sound convincing. He knew that, in theory, it wasn't such a strange thing. Perhaps it was even healthy. She was right. What if it were him, wanting to get away for a bit? But still, after all that had happened, how could he believe there was nothing more behind this latest whim?

_What if it were Draco_?

He shook that thought away, almost physically, so that Ginny frowned, looking confused.

"Are you _sure_? What are you thinking? Something's bothering you. I can see it."

"I had a stupid thought."

"What was that?"

"That…" he hesitated, ashamed of his insecurity. "That…it would be interesting if you were going to be with…_him."_

"No, that would be _your_ department," Ginny smiled inscrutably. "No, don't be ridiculous," she continued, her voice again warm.

"A lawyer, then?" he asked miserably.

"Harry, _please!_ Seriously!"

"Well, it's not out of the picture, is it?"

Exasperated, she stood up and went over to him.

"If it were that, I'd tell you. And we'd talk about it. All right? All _right_?"

"All right," he nodded, letting her caress his hair. "So," he said after a moment, taking a deep breath. "You're going off, alone, somewhere you've not told me…and you'll be back in two weeks?"

"That's about the size of it."

Shortly after this strange conversation, Ginny departed on her trip with some vague hints about dressing for cold weather, a wink, and a friendly kiss, and Harry was left alone. On this first evening alone, he was startled awake by a violent tap at his window, as if something had been thrown at it.

_Lumos_, he thought, heart beating, as he grasped for his wand. The tip illuminated the eerie face of Draco's owl, fluttering against the closed glass and looking put out. Harry opened the window so that the owl could zoom in and deposit its message on the bed. Without waiting around for an answer, the bird took off again, hooting in the night. Harry picked up the paper, which had a strange, generic message printed in some kind of commercial-looking script referencing a town hall meeting at the Ministry of Magic regarding some legislation that did not sound at all familiar.

Turning it about in his hand, the tips of his fingers suddenly grew very warm, then icy cold, as a message underneath the message materialized just long enough for him to read before it disappeared again:

_Wife out of town again. I need to see you. Do you need to see me, too?_

_ DM_


End file.
